The lecture being over, luckily so was the rain; but the captain took us out on that rolling country that flanks the Peru road, and gave us a fight with an imaginary enemy, through wet bushes, across a dump, over and among little sand and gravel pits, finally ambushing with great care an innocent Catholic cemetery. As we did this badly, on our advance exposing ourselves to the fire from the ornamental statuary, we had to do it over again. It was difficult practice, keeping in line; but it was fairly exciting to throw yourself, at command, flat on your face wherever you happened to be. I thus gained intimate acquaintance with a pile of tin cans, a scrub hard pine, and a big hill of black ants. As the proper method of moving sideways, when in skirmish line, is to roll, I rolled away from the latter position, not to the betterment of my poncho.

This afternoon, again in rain, we marched to the gymnasium once more, and the building not having been ventilated, found the air very oppressive after our hearty dinner. The captain talked to us of the rifle and its use in target shooting; but conditions were against him, for it was a very sleepy crowd that listened. I found myself drowsy, men were nodding all about me, and Corder declared that he had 247 distinct and separate naps. But it was necessary to rouse when we were required to adjust our slings and take position for snapping at a mark. The sling is the strap of the gun, which when fitted to the upper arm, and the arms and body braced against the pull of it, in some mysterious way gives steadiness. Our calisthenics were partly devised, I am sure, to help us take the contortionists' attitudes necessary for this graceful exercise. But nothing, not even our skirmishing, prepared my elbows for our final stunt of throwing ourselves prone on the hard floor, and in approved target-shooting posture snapping ten shots at the third button of the captain's shirt, while the lieutenant counted ninety seconds by his watch.

Returning, we found that rifle-inspection was scheduled, with a special warning that the captain was not satisfied with the way we kept the guns. So we got out our single cleaning-rod and passed it from cot to cot, with the nitro-solvent and the oil, and such few patches as yet remained to us. For no amount of them will satisfy one company, or even one squad, and we are always short. The rifles cleaned, we policed the tent, making it absolutely neat. Now such are the acoustic properties of these canvas dwellings that we can hear what goes on in our neighbors', and so it happened that we heard, from tent 6, Randall's controversy with the rest of his squad. It is seldom that one man will talk down seven, but we heard the whole of his obstinate defense, how that he hadn't known that he was tent-policeman for the day, that no one had policed the tent yesterday, or eke the day before, that it was a sin and a shame to make him do other men's work, that especially in the matter of the smoky lantern, which no one had cleaned since the opening of camp, it was wrong to make him bear the burden of accumulated neglect. Some of us chuckled at all this, but at such a clamor raised for the purpose of escaping duty David listened soberly. "He works very hard to avoid work," said the boy, whose good manners will not let him evade any duty which he clearly perceives—though I will admit that his perceptions are still rather dull.

The row died down, we heard the rattle of the lantern, and then Randall's voice. "I was only jollying you." No answer, but still the lantern rattled. "I'm willing to do my share of the work." Still no answer. "Oh, well," said Randall finally, "if you feel that way about it, give me the lantern. I'll clean it." We heard the corporal's voice. "I've got it nearly cleaned. And you can squeak out of your work, Randall; but just the same, we've got our opinion of you."

I thought the corporal had the best of it. It is no small penalty to carry around the squad's opinion of one's shortcomings.

At inspection time the rain was heavy, and word was passed to wait for the captain in our tents. For this we blessed him, seeing no fun in standing in line in the street; and Lucy found that after all the weather is considered in the army. When it was the turn of tent 8 we lined up facing each other, and the captain, stooping to get his hat safely through the door, came in between our two lines. He said "Just give me your guns as I'm ready for them," a deceptively mild beginning, we feared, knowing how sharp he could be. But at the fourth gun he said, "The rifles are not so bad." I handed him mine, breech open, hoping that it was up to the average. He tried to look down the barrel; then when he snorted I declare I felt like a boy before his schoolmaster. But to my relief he laughed, took from the muzzle the plug that I had put there in expectation of a long wait in the rain, looked through the barrel, and passed it. When he left he told us to turn out for Retreat with ponchos only—for which again we blessed him.

As the absence of conference, on account of rain, gives me extra time, I shall write a dissertation, not on roast pig, but just on pig, in other words on table manners. Our company has a corner of one of the mess shacks, into which we are marched. When first we came our method was to stand, hats on, by our places, where our cups and plates were waiting upside down. At the command "H Company, take seats!" (and much merriment a sergeant once made when he commanded "Be seated!") we took off our hats very decorously, hung them up (whether behind us on the walls or in front of us under the tables) sat down, turned over our plates, and reached for the dishes. Now some tables, or sections of tables, still maintain this lofty standard of good breeding, by the sheer fact that the most of the men are well bred and the rest are ashamed not to be. But where the proportion is reversed degeneration is rapid. The men furtively hang up their hats and turn over their plates before the order, and if a bunch of them take to doing this, there appears to be no remedy for it. "It's up to you," said a sergeant to us on the first day. "You can be gentlemen, or you can be the other thing."

So it is after we are seated. Certain actions are natural, as determined by the fact that while there is plenty of food, there is never on the table at one time enough of any one thing. (A few more dishes and platters would apparently remedy this.) Further, we haven't time to wait. So we begin on what happens to be in front of us, cereal first at one end of the table, fruit first in the middle (if there is any!), eggs and bacon further along; thus by degrees we work through the bill of fare. And this is not improper.

But when the fellows take to laying in supplies of whatever is within reach, and surrounding themselves with plates heaped with the substance of future courses, it is first unfair and next demoralizing. If one man hogs the available supply for merely later use, he teaches his neighbor to do the same in self-defense. And so you can watch the proof of the old copy-book motto concerning evil communications.

A word concerning reaching at table, for your guidance, my dear mother, when next you find yourself at a table d'hote. I calculate that for this method of helping one's self there is a wrong way and a right. Imagine yourself beside a busy person beyond whom lies the wished-for dish. If you reach with the arm nearest the dish, your arm goes across your neighbor's plate, a fact which my neighbors have frequently proved to me. But if you reach with the arm furthest from the dish you will not cross his plate, your body swinging your arm in over the table. I come to this interesting social discovery rather late in life, on account of the excellent table service to which you have accustomed me.

There goes the warning bugle. If I am not safely tucked up in my little bed at taps, the sergeant will say "Tut! Tut!" So good night.

DICK.



MRS. GODWIN TO HER SON RICHARD, IN A LETTER DATED SEPTEMBER 14, 1916

Your telegram, my dear, dear Dick, I have just replied to, and will now add such facts as I know concerning Vera's going to Plattsburg. What I can tell you comes through her sister Frances, with whom I have always been more intimate than Vera, even when you two were engaged. And Frances has come several times to the house, now that you are gone. I asked her to.

If the breaking of your engagement was a blow to your pride, my dear boy, think what it was to Vera's. I don't know anyone prouder than she. And to publish the fact that you two had changed your minds—! She wanted to go away, but the Wadsworths are nearly as poor as they are proud, and she didn't feel justified. Then there came a letter from her cousin Dolly, who married that handsome Captain Marsh and was stationed at Plattsburg. Dolly's husband is now on the border, and Dolly could stand the separation no longer. She was going to Texas, and one of the cousins must come to Plattsburg and take charge of her house. The children wouldn't be a burden, because there was the very capable nurse who had taken care of them since they were born. And old Colonel Marsh wouldn't be a bother, having a certain routine which got him through his days very well. Of course it would be very dull with all the officers away from the post, and those at the instruction camp constantly busy. But one of the sisters must come and relieve her, or Dolly would go mad. She is all bound up in that husband of hers.

It was plain that she expected Frances to come, being so domestic, and so old-fashioned-womanly. But Vera, you know, in spite of her suffragism and her feminism has always been kept by her father from having anything to do, and so she had nothing to occupy herself with just when she needed occupation most. So she declared that she must go, and of course Frances let her. "But you know," said Frances to me, looking up from her sewing with a little twinkle, "I know Vera will be in hot water with the old Colonel from the first, she is so out of sympathy with war, and the military life, and all it has (or hasn't) to offer women." That's her sex independence, you see.

Vera can't know that you're there. She went just before you so suddenly made up your mind to go, and Frances hasn't written her of your going. I told her I shouldn't tell you, and begged her not to write Vera. And unless Vera recognizes you, which isn't likely, she will know nothing of your whereabouts.

It is odd that David Farnham is in your squad, and amusing that I should have seen his mother only yesterday. She never was so proud of anything in her life as of the fact that he is at Plattsburg. So she has become a perfect nuisance to her friends, talking of him so. I met her at a Bridge, and she was crazy to see me, David having written her that you two are together. So she got herself put at my table, and our two partners were furious, because the game dwindled away to nothing, she talking of David all the time. You would have thought that he was the whole army and navy of these United States. I was at first quite frightened that she would ask me your opinion of his fitness. But not at all; that was quite settled in her mind. She talked about his deciding to go, and how he made her see that it was the best thing for him and for the country—and there is a story to that, because it was her husband that insisted on her letting David go, when she would have kept him. And she talked of his equipment, how horrid it was that he couldn't dress like the officers, especially his legs, they are so handsome; but he wasn't allowed to wear puttees or leather leggings, but must wear those canvas things. And she gave him everything new; she even mentioned those French silk pajamas that so amuse you. And then she was indignant that he was not at once made a lieutenant, or something. And the men in his tent, except you, Dick, are of no social standing whatever. Of course she hadn't heard of his being called Lucy. She was so satisfied that I wanted to tell her. Do write me more of him.

Lovingly MOTHER.



PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Before morning drill, Friday, Sep. 15, 1916.

DEAR MOTHER:—

Our good Lucy is a different lad from the one that landed here a week ago. Did I tell you that he has come to the heroic resolution to clean his own gun? I suppose the strongest factor in that is his detestation of Randall. It's quite common here for fellows to get the regulars to clean their guns, and there's more to be said for that than for many other indulgences: at least it's better for the rifles. The regulars drive a good little trade of this kind, and David has twice sent out his piece to be laundered, as it were. But I know that he perceived that the sentiment of the squad is against it, and I think he's sensitive enough to understand the reasons. We're all here to learn to be soldiers, and taking care of his gun is a pretty important part of a soldier's job. And then we're an economical crowd. David and I are the only ones in the squad that didn't have to pinch a little in order to get here; even Corder spoke recently of the expense as something unwelcome. So it's really rather bad form to pay for outside service. Yet for all that, David couldn't quite bring himself to do the dirty work.

So when a regular came to us yesterday, before inspection, and asked for guns to clean, David began to get his gun out of the rack. He looked a little uneasily at Knudsen, but the Swede wouldn't see it; he kept squinting through his own piece. The regular, to make matters sure, said, "Mr. Randall told me you'd give me your gun. I always clean his." With the funniest little set of his jaw, as if he didn't quite know how to do it, David reached for the cleaning rod. "Well," he said, "Mr. Randall is mistaken. I clean my gun myself." Then he sat down beside Knudsen, as if sure that the other would teach him—in which he was right. His dirty hands at the end were a sad sight to him, and yet I think he was proud of them too.

This morning Randall, who hasn't learned (and I question if he ever will) how unwelcome he is in our tent, came in to brag a little—and of what! There stands to the south of us a big hotel whose bulk is visible from the camp, a strong temptation to all our luxurious budding Napoleons. Randall was there last night, and came in to tell us what he had to eat. Particularly he enjoyed, he said, the fresh asparagus tips. Pickle's envy overcame his dislike, and he had nothing to say. But David's eye gleamed. "Fresh asparagus tips?" he asked. "Scarcely that." "Indeed?" demanded Randall. "I know asparagus when I eat it." "But not fresh asparagus," countered David. "It's not to be had in September. Canned tips, Randall, that's all." And Pickle, in his relief, cackled aloud.

I have of late told you so little of our officers that I must say something about them here, of officers as a class, and ours in particular. We are at the stage of theoretical conferences—after the regimental meeting each night on the drill-field is a company conference at each company tent, where the non-coms are expected to go, and where all others are invited. Consequently the captain or lieutenant has forty men there each night, crowded close around the table and packed at the open side of the tent. We are learning the theory of field skirmish work, with a glance at the method of advancing by road into an enemy's country.

And I must say that our officers have at their tongues' ends the whole of the principle that is embodied in that strange little book, the drill regulations. As soon as you have got beyond the mere parade-ground work (and that is all the civilian ever sees) the book brings you to a region where nothing else is considered than the one thing, attack, attack, attack. There is something very grim and inexorable in this primer of war, this A B C of the principles of destruction. And if the innocent little pocket manual contains a codification, so condensed as to be amazing, of the ways to slay your enemy, the officers are ready with every possible amplification of its dry paragraphs. Get forward, always get forward, is their intention. Make your fire effective, make it destructive, make it overwhelming. With word, with blackboard plan and section, with theory, with practical illustration, each night they lay before us some new field of this really awful knowledge. We study it eagerly. Two years ago I should have been horrified at these doctrines that they preach. Today I regard knowledge of them, by a sufficient number of able-bodied men, as the great need of the country.

So much, dear mother, of things which to speak of in detail would only pain your kind heart. As to the men that teach us, I can say that they improve upon acquaintance. Each of them, the captain and lieutenant, has his own way of teaching. In the lieutenant a coolness of statement that seems to imply a calm unshakableness, as of one who has measured all risks and sees that they amount to nothing. In the captain equal clearness but more fire. Both see that the only safety is in attack. They answer our questions quite differently, the lieutenant with a crisp completeness that leaves nothing to inquire but much to ponder on, the captain with an illuminating phrase that humanizes everything and brings instant understanding. Their men will go wherever they send them in a fight, for the lieutenant because they know he must be right, for the captain because they feel it.

We never, I think, can know the lieutenant very well, because of that quality which I saw in him at his first appearance before us, an aloofness that taunts us into the determination to please him. The captain I am sure we know already, a worker, a driver, but one who shows us that he understands our mistakes by the very keenness of his irony. "I have found you men to place the hip anywhere between the armpit and the knee. So I will place it for you at the watch pocket. That is your official hip, gentlemen." "Yes, skirmishers in Europe are now wearing steel helmets. But if you men don't better learn to keep under cover you won't need steel helmets, you'll need battleships." "You can't take too many precautions in the use of your guns. In this game with me out in front, I'm an advocate of safety first."

The men like him, but more than that, they respect him. You know, mother, that I can tell something at first hand about learning one's job. But these officers put the average civilian to shame. I doubt if there is stronger professional feeling, or a higher standard of professional achievement, anywhere in the world. If all the other officers are like our two, West Pointers are a formidable body of men.

DICK.



EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF VERA WADSWORTH TO HER SISTER FRANCES

Sep. 6, 1916.

DEAR FRANCES:—

You can't imagine what a relief it is to be where there are no men. That may seem to you a curious statement, for here there are practically no women at all, and nothing but men in the landscape from morning till night. But there are no men buzzing about. It was disgusting to me that no sooner was my engagement to Dick broken than the rushing recommenced. I am so glad to be where no one pays me any attention at all. The place will be flooded in a few days with a thousand new rookies, but they will be nothing else to me than trees or bushes, and I can still have peace.

There are ladies here whom I have met, and shall meet again. Only I feel no interest in them just now, except that the two I am likeliest to see most of are such as always rouse my pity, overburdened with the cares of children and a social position on a small salary. And the money of one of them has just stopped coming in because her husband, at the border, allowed an emergency purchase which the auditing department at Washington will not pass. You know that in such a case the officer's pay stops until the deficiency is made up or the matter is explained. No one questions his honesty, but his wife and children suffer. And a man will ask a woman to take that risk with him!

The Colonel is the nicest old gentleman, very courteous. There is no doubt that army officers have delightful manners; he begs my pardon every time he lights his pipe. Cannot afford cigars, of course. And threadbare, but very neat. But what is the use of courtesy and self-denial if you believe in war, make war your business?

He and I have had it out already. Neither of us made the slightest impression on the other. His argument is the old one: be prepared, and people will let you alone. He cannot be made to see that if a man has a gun, or a nation has an army, the temptation to use it will some day become too strong.

I haven't given him my opinion of the army as a profession for women. He always ends our discussion with a charming compliment. But I am aching to point out to him the condition of the house we live in, where the new has all come off of Dolly's wedding presents, the chair covers are wearing out, holes are coming in the napkins, and there is no money for replacements. How Dolly could pay for her trip to the border, or keep herself there, I can't think. Suppose the children are sick!

Oh, my dear, I am so weary of genteel poverty! Why couldn't I have married Dick? He worked so hard, and got himself such a fine position, that we should have been so comfortable! And then we had to conclude that we weren't made for each other. I do so regret it, and yet there was nothing else possible. Perhaps I'm not made for marriage after all.

* * * * *

September 12th.

The town, as I told you, is flooded with recruits, of the amateur variety. But our post is a little oasis all by itself, and except that they come and drill on the parade ground, they do not come near us. Did I tell you that out in front of the house, merely across a driveway, is this great field where the training companies manoeuvre morning and afternoon, and where they occasionally have regimental or battalion drill? Luckily our small piazza is all grown over with vines, so that I can sit outside for the air and yet not myself be seen. The old Colonel watches it all with the keenest interest, tells me what they do and what they fail to do, and I am even learning the meaning of a few military terms. He approves of the way in which the new men learn, and is very proud of what they are achieving. But it has got so with me that I pay no more attention to the drilling men than to automobiles going by. And when their hours are over the place is almost as deserted as before.

* * * * *

Sept. 13.

I am rather annoyed by the fact that now that the training camp is settling into its routine, its officers—the unmarried ones—find time to come calling on the Colonel. Of course the dear old man is delighted to see them, and doesn't tell me that he has helped to spread the report that an eligible young woman is staying with him. I wish he hadn't. For I have found out that military men are twice as bad as civilians. They are aggressive by nature, or they wouldn't have chosen the profession; they are aggressive by education; three minutes after they are introduced they begin a flirtation. There is a lieutenant Pendleton here for whom I am sure I am the twenty-seventh, so skilful is he in his operations. I have known him two days, and I expect him to propose tomorrow. There are three others who are only a day, or at most two days, behind. You know them, the dashing, fascinating kind.

Another officer, Lt. Pendleton's captain, named Kirby, I cannot quite make out. He doesn't make love; he discusses tactics with the colonel. Yet he comes quite regularly, and keeps me in sight. He seems grimmer, more tenacious than the others; I'm glad he gives his time to the Colonel rather than to me. His voice has a curious quality, a most unmilitary gentleness. Pendleton, when he gets you in a corner, purrs to you alone; yet you feel that he has claws. His voice rings on the parade ground; I'm sure of it. I can't make out what Captain Kirby's would sound like. There is a deceptive sympathy to it, deceptive because I feel in him much purpose. When an army officer can't flirt he either likes his profession too little or he likes it too much.

* * * * *

Sep. 14.

This morning, on our little porch, I was sitting sewing behind the vines when Captain Kirby came marching his company onto the parade ground before the house. And then I learned what his voice was like, my dear. Not gentle at all; very deep, very strong, curiously resonant, as if he were shouting through a trumpet. And how do you suppose he treated his men, so many of whom are gentlemen, or older than he, or earning bigger salaries. Like schoolboys! I first saw him when he was standing out in front of them, holding in his hand, swinging by the strap, a rifle that he must have taken from one of them. Said he: "When you're at route step, I want you not to carry your guns like suit-cases. You aren't a gang of porters. If I had the money I'd tip you all; but cut out this red-cap stuff. And don't carry it so." He put it across his shoulders, pointing right and left. "You'll put out the eye of the man on your right, and bash the ear of the man on your left. Now remember, Nature is a great provider. She has made shoulders specially for the carrying of rifles. Carry your rifle on one shoulder or the other, or hang them by the straps from one shoulder or the other. And by no other way." As if they had to obey him in every little thing!

Then he worked them! Nothing satisfied him. At each mistake, a blast of sarcasm. He spoke of the "accordion-pleated line." He gave a fling at a lost corporal: "As soon as we recover our derelict flanking squad, now about a hundred yards ahead." The men came slinking back. He withered one individual. "That belt is on exactly right. Except that it's upside down and inside out, it's exactly right." At whatever distance he went, I could hear every word. And whenever the company came close, I could hear the men in the ranks, murmur, murmur, murmur. You can't treat such men so. Of course they're disgusted with him.

* * * * *

Sep. 15.

Such a humiliation today! And such a discovery! I suppose you didn't tell me that Dick was here because you thought I'd prefer not to know it. We're perfectly aware of each other's neighborhood now. This is the way of it.

This afternoon, being tired of the continual drilling on the parade ground, I slipped away before it could begin, and leaving the Colonel at his nap, went walking out a gravel road that I've for some time wished to explore. It took me along a rather desolate tract of scrub land, with nothing ahead but the distant Adirondacks; so at last, seeing a little hill to the left, I thought I'd try if I could see the lake from it, and perhaps sit there awhile in quiet. I struck out across this piece of very desolate country, with little bushes growing but no grass, not good for pasture nor for anything but one purpose which I didn't then suspect. Soon I found myself walking along a ditch which kept cutting me off from the hill, a ditch in the driest of sandy land and as deep as my chin, all shored up with cut poles, or sometimes with plank, or with bundles of twigs, or with willow basket work. And then I saw it was a trench!

The Plattsburgers must have made it. It ran all about, experimentally. It had here a shelter of sandbags, there a dugout, there a kitchen. It was made in different ways to show how to use material, I suppose. Really it was very clever. And then when I came too near it at one place, to study it, the rotten wood gave way with me, and so as not to have to fall I was forced to jump, right down into it. And there I was! When I tried to get up at the half-broken place, I was overwhelmed by a shower of sand. Everywhere else the walls were too high for me to climb out. So I took to walking along it, and it twisted all around, with passages like a maze, but nowhere a place to climb. At one corner I met a horrible great snake, helpless down there too. But it went one way and I went the other, till I came to a little niche with a cover overhead, and a loophole looking along the waste of scrub. Outside a little sign said, "Machine-gun emplacement." And there I stood looking out for a sign of help.

Then I heard Captain Kirby's voice, no one could mistake it, and I was relieved till I understood what he was saying. "Less noise, men! You couldn't creep up on a dead tree that way. It would hear you coming." The horrible thing had all his hundred and fifty men there, and in a moment I began to see them, little glimpses of olive-drab pushing through the bushes. I heard his voice again: "By squads from the right!" then corporals' voices, then the rushing of men, then more corporals and more rushing. All the time, from nowhere that I could see, came a continual clicking—the absurd creatures were pretending to fire on the trench where I was standing. I began to get more glimpses of men running stooped and throwing themselves flat, heard the captain's war-horn, and a little further away the lieutenant's voice like a bugle.

For this sort of playing soldier I suppose it was really pretty well done. I knew they were all the time coming nearer, but I couldn't get anything but glimpses of them. And after a while I knew they were behind a line of bushes some fifty yards away, where I heard their continuous clicking; but they showed only an occasional hat. Then I heard the captain's voice, "Front rank, simulate fix bayonets!" and in a moment, full of sarcasm: "Don't draw that bayonet! I said simulate. Don't you understand the English language?" The clicking kept up at only half rate, and I saw a few rifle muzzles; then the rear rank pretended the same; then I heard the order, "Prepare to charge!" And it was all dead silence.

There was nothing that I could do but peep through my loophole, and think how silly it all was. I heard a roar from the captain, an outburst of yells, the crash of the bushes, and—there was the captain coming like a bull, and a long rank of men rising behind him and rolling on toward me in a wave. Oh, Frances dear, there is something awful about brute force! I felt the ground shake, the noise of the shouting seemed to burst my ears, the faces in front of me were like those of angry demons. I'm ashamed that their toy soldiering was so real to them that it [the word frightened evidently crossed out] was too much for me, and I turned away and put my hands to my ears.

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 Dick! He and the blond man had me out in a moment, and Dick 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 GODWIN'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.

Nobody 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. Godwin," 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. Godwin," 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 passed 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.

DICK.



PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Saturday 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 assembling 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 classic 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 prone, 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 accumulate 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

DICK.



PRIVATE GODWIN 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-butt and scrap 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 prone, 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 cocking 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. 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

DICK.



PRIVATE GODWIN'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 button, 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 assembled, 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 butts 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 cocking 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 prone 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 shells left on the ground, with 300 clips, all of brass. 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 brass 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 compass, 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 passed 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 buttoned 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

DICK.



PRIVATE GODWIN'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 prone, 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 passed 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 butts, 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 butt, 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 butts 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. Godwin, 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. He knelt beside me, coaxed, encouraged, purred. "Now, Mr. Godwin, this time you will do better." And actually I did, a four at seven o'clock. Once more he adjusted the sights and gave advice as to aim. "And squeeze!" he said. "Squeeze!" I made a five at six o'clock—only a nipper, but still a bull! Someone else coming for him, he left me with a "See, you're shooting better!" And I believed him.

That is what he was doing all day, correcting, advising, giving confidence. Every man after shooting brought his score-book to him, and was told how to improve his work. But it was too late for me to make a good score on this target: I made but twenty-two. Yet other men did worse, nine, eleven, and even four! Corder, disgusted, reported a twenty. Knudsen was quietly pleased with his thirty-nine. Then I hunted up David, and found him just as Randall approached with a "Lucy, what did you make?" David acknowledged a twenty-one, and Randall gloated over his own forty-two. When he had gone, I said "He ought to shoot, being pure animal. He has no nerves."

"Hasn't he?" demanded David, meaning, "I know he has." But he would say no more.

I found that the men with low scores were more troubled about the effect on the company total, and the captain's record, than they were for their own credit.

But as for this game of shooting, it is certainly a test of nerve. Nothing else can quite equal it—the strain to get position, to line the sights just right, to hold steady, and then to squeeze. By me on the firing-line the irregular shots were loud and startling, and people were talking and calling all around. Golf, with its reverence for the man about to play, is mild compared to this. The nervous strain of firing is greater, the bodily shock is abrupt and jarring, you have no real chance to make up for a miss by later brilliance or by any luck. No, golf teaches patience and it requires poise, but—as played by the ordinary man—it is no such game as this.

And as between the experts, target shooting is still the bigger sport. The knowledge and judgment required to meet the varying conditions, the steadiness demanded, the fact that the rifleman is preparing himself to meet his country's greatest emergencies—these put golf (and you know I have loved the game) into the lower place.

I put on my greatcoat again, took the nap that longed to be taken, and then, refreshed and more confident, went to my next turn.

This was at five hundred yards. If you will consider that I was shooting from our house across the meadow, across the railroad bridge, at a circle twenty inches in diameter (about the size of our largest pewter platter) you will understand my task. But I was fussed to begin with, for someone had taken my rifle from the rack, and I had therefore not blacked the sights, nor adjusted the sling, of the one that I hastily borrowed. As I came to the stand I was met by an artillery corporal, evidently a kind of super-coach, who curtly ordered me to do the one thing and the other, and hurried me to my place. I told him how the captain had wanted the sights set for this distance; I had put them so. "That doesn't go here," he said, readjusted them himself, and ordered me to lie down. He was so overbearing, and I was so uncertain of my rights, that I took my position and fired my shot. A miss! He blamed me severely, and in general treated me like the dirt under my feet. At my next shot, a poor two, he said, "There you go, thinking you know all about it, and jerking your trigger again." I said, "On the contrary, I'm not used to the pull of this trigger, and the gun went off before I expected." From that time on I paid no more attention to him, and perhaps from my manner he saw that it was just as well to let me alone; but he attacked the other man on this target, who feebly protested, and who made a wretched score. My score was coaxed along by our company coach, a nice chap named Haynes, who was most interested and sympathetic. As for me, the artilleryman vexed me so that I shot to kill him, and by imagining him at the target made a thirty-six.

It was an entirely new sensation, to be so bedevilled by such a man, and to know that in wartime I could not reply. When at noon we were marched back to camp and dismissed I sought out Haynes and asked, "What is your opinion of that artillery coach?" Said he, "I'm going to speak to the captain about him." "Thanks," I said. "You'll save me the trouble." And when again I came back to the post in the afternoon, though the corporal was there, he was very quiet and good.

This incident makes me doubt the value, for such volunteers as we, of the regular non-coms whom they hope to have here next year, if by that time the troops are off the border. What help could such an overbearing conceited drill-master, with no inkling of our difficulties or our point of view, give to such a squad as ours? Would he last a week out of hospital, or we a week out of arrest? No, give us a Plattsburg veteran of one camp as corporal, and appoint as sergeants those who have served two, and we shall come on faster. Further, more men would thus be trained for responsible positions.

In the afternoon we shot at 600 yards. We now had sandbag rests for our left hands (not for our guns) and once more the captain showed his foresight. He had us bring intrenching shovels and a dozen new burlap bags, and soon we were provided with the best sandbags on the range. I had the same nice little Haynes who had coached me on my second target. Unsatisfied as I still am with my showing, I think he drilled into me some idea of my errors, and my score again improved, standing at forty. I feel better than if it had wavered up and down, even if the total had been the same, and can reasonably argue that if the captain kept on increasing the distance, say to 2000 yards, I should make a perfect score. But many men, I find, did their worst at this distance, Randall ending up at 24. Lucy has pegged steadily along, and got into the thirties.

The supper-tables buzzed tonight as never before, every man having his tale to tell, generally a tale of woe. Poor Knudsen is very sore, as his last shot went into his neighbor's bullseye, and though the neighbor had finished shooting, the shot could not be credited to Knudsen. There are many other stories of misses that spoiled the score, and on the other hand when a man has made a ricochet hit he is not inclined to brag of it. Even those who from my point of view did very well are a little inclined to grumble; and the only really satisfied man is Percy of Squad Nine, who holds today's record.

Concerning Knudsen's miss, I now have the whole story. He had as scorer an artillery sergeant who read the flags through field-glasses, and was an unusually long time in scoring the last shot. At last he said "A bull," and scored a five, which gave Knudsen a perfect record; but he, suspecting something, made the man admit that the bulleye was in the wrong target. Knudsen changed the score himself, a bit of personal heroism that roused the wonder of Pickle, who told me the tale, and ended "Chee, I couldn't a done it!"

Here is a story of Lieutenant Pendleton, told me by a man who watched the incident. Our top-sergeant was scoring badly at six hundred yards, and the lieutenant said, "Let me try your gun." So he lay down, and without putting his arm in the sling, rested the gun on the bag, drew it tightly into the shoulder by a hand-grip of the strap, and fired. It was a "two at one o'clock," which means that the shot struck the outer side of the target about the line, on a clock face, between one o'clock and the centre. "Your sight is too high," said he, and corrected it. Then he tried again, and got a "three at three o'clock," which means that he struck on the level of the bull, but still out at the right. "You must correct for windage," said he then. "I'll give her one and a quarter." So once more, with the same rest and grip, he fired. Before the targets could be changed and the shot marked the lieutenant got up, gave the gun to the sergeant, and walked away, saying, "That's a bull's eye. You can depend on that sighting, sergeant." Then the scorer called the shot. A bull's eye it was, and the sergeant went on to shoot a string of them.

There is some pleasure in being drilled by such men as our officers. I wish you could see the lieutenant on parade, in his best clothes, which somehow are more becoming to him than the undress uniform, in which Kirby shows best. Watch Pendleton walking with his springy, tireless step, always with his eye on us. A dandy he is then, but one of the fighting dandies, an athlete in good training, and a man that knows his business.

Our day was so completely taken up by the shooting that at the end it was too late even for Retreat, and we in the middle of our washing up watched the other battalion at parade, stood at attention while the band played the Star-Spangled Banner, and saluted at the end. I have spent much of the evening writing; and now, the first call having blown, the camp is getting ready for bed. In the inner company tent I am left alone, the other letter-writers and diarists having drifted away. In the outer, open tent, where the conferences are held, three men are sitting at a corner of the big table, still discussing their scores, their rifles, the squeeze, the kick, the serious mistake it is to cant the gun. And here is a fact for you. Captain Kirby declares that the rifles do not kick, and in his own case he is probably right. But I got today a very sharp recoil each time I fired, so that by noon my arm was lame to the elbow, and my shoulder sore. I expected much difficulty in the afternoon, and the first shot hurt consumedly; but whether or not I learned to hold the rifle better, or whether the gradual toning up of my muscles is accustoming me to what comes, the rest of the kicks seemed to act as a sort of massage, so that I forgot about them, and tonight I am entirely free of lameness.

Outside, at the head of the company street, the fire is gradually dying down. Wood is always provided for it, a hole is dug, the men feed it as long as they please, and in the morning the police squad, I suppose, smooth the ground. On benches or on the ground the men sit about the fire, sing, discuss, or chat in groups. There is in the store tent an easy chair made of rough lumber and sacking; when the captain can be induced to stay after conference the men bring it out, seat him in it, and make him talk. On his own doings he is silent, but on the work of the camp, the formations, drill, skirmish work, patrolling, outpost duty, and especially just now the ways of his beloved tool, the rifle, he has much to say. Around him are men often much older than he, others who in civil life command several times his pay, fellows who have every luxury at command, as well as chaps bred and indeed wedded to the most peaceable pursuits. But they all are here for a purpose; they never talk patriotism but they all act it; and everything he can tell them that bears on their efficiency as soldiers they will pump from him if they possibly can. It is fine to see how they recognize in him complete mastery of the subject that occupies us all, and how they sit at his feet for instruction.

But he has left us nearly half an hour ago, and the groups that remain are slowly separating, as one by one the men go to their tents. I can tell you just what is happening in ours. The lantern is lighted and hanging on the pole. Clay is probably finishing a letter to his "mother." Bannister is doubtless already abed, but ready from his cot to add a sleepy jest to the quiet talk that is slowly going on. Reardon is putting the last stamps on the sheaf of post-cards that he daily sends, for he, you must understand, has more correspondents at home than any of the rest of us. Rather big and burly, the quietest of men, with a very active eye but very intensely committed to the minding of his own business, I know him to be the most popular man in his own little town, where as the managing clerk of the grocery he knows every man, woman, and child in the place. He knows the taste of each, what he habitually needs or demands, whether to trust or require cash. He gets through his day without a clash with anyone. And knowing both his customers and the market he looks after the needs of the town, warns of a rise in prices, calls attention to special bargains, advises to lay in a stock of this or that. They miss him now that he's gone; I know it by the pleasure he takes in the letters and post-cards that come daily, bits from which he cannot help reading out to us—from the Civil War veteran who half believes in Plattsburg, and half doesn't; the drug-store clerk that has to go off on his vacation alone; the "boss" that has nothing personal to say, but quotes the market changes; the neighbor who doesn't quite venture to trust to the post the doughnuts she wishes she might send. And nightly Reardon sits on his cot and writes in the dim light careful answers to every message.

Lucy and Corder are putting themselves to bed most systematically, Corder because of his middle-aged habit, Lucy on account of that aristocratic cleanliness in which he has been scrupulously bred. They have their system and their order, the toilet, the costume, the making of the bed, all very careful and precise. Knudsen, still dressed, is lolling on his cot and jollying; this is the time of day when he most comes out of himself, and I know that presently when I approach the tent it will be his ringing tenor that I shall hear. He is poking fun at the others, cursing that last shot on the range, interrupting Reardon and Clay in their writing, philosophizing on his favorite subject, baseball. Yet if you get a little closer to him you find that he has interests that it takes a little coaxing to disclose: religious convictions that he has changed with his growth, curious hard business experiences that make him declare that he is a self-seeker, while you have only to watch him with Lucy to know that he is not. Yet he sedulously knocks and batters at every feminine quality that the boy discloses, and will exaggerate any statement if he thinks you suspect him of tenderness.

I shall presently make a dash, for the tent, snatch my tooth-brush and make for the spigot, and bring back a basin of water for my feet. Then Knudsen will bestir himself and race me for bed, at the same time that Reardon lays by his pen and accepts our warning. We crawl between the blankets, nine over us tonight. I shall put my poncho over me next, and my overcoat on that, and with the tent-wall looped up shall be practically outdoors.

Last of all Pickle will come slipping in from some rendezvous with friends. He sleeps in his clothes, minus shoes and leggings, and he is likely to be curled up before I am.

And then float to us the notes of Taps. "Love, good night. Must thou go...?" It is the signal. The last one of us puts out the lantern, and it is soon "Good night, boys," and silence. Usually I go to sleep at once; if not I soon hear the feet of two of the sergeants in the street and see the gleam of their lantern. They come from tent to tent, enter ours and throw the light on each cot, and pass on. Often I hear from the neighboring tents a sleepy "Good night, sergeant," but never yet the question "Who sleeps in that cot?" A high average, then, of obedience to the rules. The men are here for business.

I have lingered almost too long. Good night!

DICK.



THE SAME TO THE SAME