Behind me, after quiet, the fire has broken out again. The boys listen critically. "We shan't have to go back for that." There is a whole battalion behind us that can stand off any attack.

(Later.) The hike today has been steady plodding, halting at the regular intervals, also at times of attack from the rear. At first the boys sang a good deal, new songs and old. But the last two stretches, though we have had continual jokes and laughter, have been a persistent grind. For the first time we have had climbing, pretty steady from our start to the height of land, a rise of 502 feet, after which we stumbled down a very stony track till we reached a better road at Halfway House, an uninviting structure between two unknown terminals. We had one fine look-off at the highest point, over a gently descending slope of miles to a strip of Champlain, and beyond, floating above the haze, the Green Mountains of Vermont. Now we are resting again, the boys talking, smoking, studying the map, and singing quietly.

In camp at Ledger Corners. At the mouth of my kennel.

The day's hike, ten or twelve miles, is finished, a very dreary performance indeed. The way was very dull; and though the boys were at first inclined to say they were glad not to be on skirmish duty, we having worked so hard of late, before the trudge was over we were all tired of the monotony, and would have been glad of a brush. And we got just as tired and hungry as if we had had an extra four or five miles of cross-country work. At last after passing through a district whose only beauties were its few high views and the gorgeous colors of its maples, and whose general sparseness of people, unattractive fields, and ill-kept houses (chiefly of plastered logs) became after a while depressing, we came to almost the only smooth field that we had seen. The first of the trucks, after its journey of thirty-six miles, was just arriving; nevertheless it was not long after we had pitched camp that coffee was ready, with which we wetted our dry snack. You should watch us veterans pitch camp. Every tent is erected in fifteen minutes at most, less if rain is threatening. I always hurry off early for the hay, leaving Bann to finish pegging down, and to ditch if necessary. My haste saves delay; today I got into the hay-barn just before a quartermaster came and formed a line. I always lug away a full poncho; though the hay almost fills the tent at first it soon packs down, and I want this amount to make sleep easy, and to make sure that even if rain gets under the tent, we shall sleep on an island in comfort. Tonight the weather promises to be fine, so that Bann did no digging except for sods to lay on the edges of the tent to keep out the wind.

Afternoons are always pretty full. We are said to have our time to ourselves—yes, and if conference on the manoeuvres is omitted (as today, when our battalion had no manoeuvres to confer about), it really amounts to something. And I have gained time by toughening myself, the rest I used to crave at Plattsburg and on the range no longer being necessary. But I love to linger over the luxury of the swim—or rather the bath—if there is an accessible stream. There was none at Cherubusco, and to tell the truth I didn't miss it, so weary was I, and the weather so cold. But yesterday and today I enjoyed the chance to soap myself and souse. Next if there is mail (and I can always depend on my letter from you) I like to enjoy it and skim the newspaper. After that the rifle should be cleaned, even on such a day as this when I did not fire a shot, for the barrel has a habit of "sweating" which requires it to be cleaned out and oiled. And then hundreds of us fall to on our letters home, always in a public place, with talk going on all about, and with men going by who pause and interrupt.

For in our company, and I doubt not in all the others, there is the friendliest feeling for each other, and for each other's fortunes. We know that So-and-so has had a sprain, that such a man is in trouble with his digestion, that Hill has a fallen arch, and that Homans has terribly blistered his feet and is these days riding on the trucks, poor devil. Those who have met at the hospital tent have a common interest. Thus getting acquainted, we hail each other when we meet in the street, stop at each other's fires, compare notes, congratulate on recovery, sympathize. There are, too, the recognized jokers, men who are always looking out for a chance to make a hit. And finally camp news is handed along from man to man.

With all this going on, afternoon and evening, a fellow is continually interested and, you may say, busy. There is good feeling almost everywhere, though it is interesting to see how the degree of it varies.

You see this particularly in the solidarity of squads. There is somewhere in the regiment, I am told, a squad that does nothing but squabble; the men have nearly all in turn been corporal, and no one will obey. But mostly there is bound to spring up a feeling of unity, as the eight men sleep and march and manoeuvre together. This will differ according to the men's natural sociability or feeling of loyalty, with perhaps jealousy in one man, or officiousness in another. Occasionally you will find a squad whose masterful corporal interferes too much with his men's personal freedom—and that has to be adjusted by a little plain language. Sometimes a fellow is discontented with his squad; Randall, for example, doesn't feel himself appreciated by his mates, and seeks chums elsewhere. But none of his new intimates stay by him very long.

Our squad holds together very well; we eat together when our tents are not too long a journey from the mess tent, a matter of consequence with a brimming dish, and in general we have a constant eye out for each other's movements. But more than this, we are taking Squad Nine into a little confederation; they are men of the most diverse sorts but very much of a unit, and all bright, witty, and ready to cooperate. Indeed, having a system of fetching each other's hay and filling each other's canteens, they have a better squad organization than we. It has pleased me very much that our banter between the tents at Plattsburg has turned into the friendliest of feeling, so that we naturally seek each other out. We gave them a spread last night, and today are invited to another in return.

The column on the march is an amusing thing. Taken in little, I have got very familiar with the backs and legs of the four in front, Bann's springy tread, Clay's sturdy tramp, the little stiffness that shows in ancient Corder's gait, and the untiring litheness of Knudsen's swing. Beside me Reardon trudges silently, his hat always flopped a little over his eyes, his head up. Sometimes I make him talk, and have pried out of him much of his family history. Beyond him Pickle goes on springs, cracking jokes like a little internal combustion engine. And David, now very tanned and wide awake, finishes our four. Without looking, we know the voice of each of our neighbors behind or in front, even so far as the witless stutterer some squads ahead, or the flat-voiced constant querist somewhere behind. But now when he raises his song his neighbors shut him up.

Our company in column always remembers who commands it. The first song we begin to sing, and the last we give up, is the Buzzard song, to show our loyalty. Incidentally the song has improved discipline, for yesterday when a buzzard approached us with the inevitable chocolate, tobacco, and matches, we passed him along down the line with the chorus, "Poor old buzzard, get away out of here," though, to be frank, the wording is somewhat stronger. No buzzard will ever get anything out of our company again when on the road, even though we may be at rest. Other little touches show our memory of the captain's injunctions. We have a sergeant who in former camps was demoralized by drilling under other officers, and who at times crosses his gun upon his shoulders as he marches. Then the whole column shouts at him till he takes it down. And when some other company passes us, with men carrying the guns by the straps, we shout: "Porter! Suit-case men! Red-caps!"

It is fine to march in a column of men and know the current of energy that flows along it. However many miles you have marched, however tired your feet and back and arms may be, in the knowledge that you are one of a disciplined regiment there is something that strengthens you and keeps you going. For in one sense Route Step, when you may go as you please, is a fiction; we must still keep so close together that to preserve the step and the cadence is almost a necessity, and though we carry our pieces at ease, we still swing along together. And as you look along rising ground, and see the hundreds of men ahead, and know there are as many more behind, all going, going, the knowledge that you are a part of that machine, and that to fall out would be to mar it and to cut yourself off from it, keeps you still moving on your weary pins.

You see I am speaking of general things, because of particular events today there is nothing to describe. The bathing today was most shockingly public, on both sides of the bridge in this apology for a town. Whenever wheels were heard, men shouted "Cover!" and those in the water (which was very shallow) would try to get under. But I think the women folk had been warned to keep away, since none of them crossed, at least while I was there.

(Evening.) Tonight we have had a talk from General Wood. I have not reported our conferences to you, they are so incidental, and indeed so theoretical at times. But we have had a captain from the border tell us of the coming of the green militia there at the mobilizing of the national guard, of their first helplessness under service conditions, full as every company was of new men. The work of getting this half- or quarter-trained mass ready for fighting was enormously more difficult than our Plattsburg work; and the fact that these regiments, if sent into the field at first, would have been helpless against the Mexicans, needs no explanation (disagreeable as the idea is) to every recruit here. We have at another conference been shown the detail work of supplying our camps both at the training ground and on the hike, and the immense importance of the work of the obscure quartermaster's department. Talk after talk has impressed us with the amount of work needed to drill, to equip, to work into fighting shape, even a few thousand men; and there is no Plattsburg rookie who does not fully understand, and will not in detail explain to his neighbors when he goes home, the absurdity of Mr. Bryan's army of a million men which is to spring into being at the call of the President. It would very much relieve us to be assured that the government is ready to equip them even in the least particular.

General Wood has talked to us from time to time. Back at the training camp he told us somewhat of our military history. You know our text-books feed us up on our military glories; but looked at through the cold eyes of the statistician we know now that these were achieved at the cost of enormous and unnecessary losses, all from lack of system and readiness. Moreover there are certain military disgraces which need to be called to our attention, to make us resolve that these things shall not happen again. Considering further that we have never yet had a war with a first class military power (with two at least of whom we are in controversy now) and remembering that not only has our national guard proved a failure at this crisis, but that the new enlistments in the regular army have not come to pass, so that it is many thousands below its paper strength, we are now at the point of asking ourselves what we are to do to meet the military necessity which will some day suddenly come upon us. We believe it is coming; no soldier will deny it or can more than hope against it. Therefore we must prepare—but how?

—It is time for our spread; Squad Nine has come not merely with camp delicacies, but with cakes and candies from home! So I will break off this gloomy epistle with, as usual, love from

DICK.

P. S. Still come the variations of the story of the clip of ball cartridges. Someone knows somebody else who found it among his cartridges one morning and slipped it into another man's belt. Thus the clip, and the story, travels.



PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Cadyville, N. Y., Oct. 4, 1916.

DEAR MOTHER:—

We were up today as usual at half past five, those who were lucky rising a little earlier for more comfortable dressing. And yet, after all, ten minutes is enough for those few observances which may be dignified with the name of our toilet. The pint and a half in the canteens allows us a scrub of the teeth, and a rinsing of the face and hands—no more, especially if we are to have anything to drink on the day's march, for the morning, with an empty water-butt, is no time to replenish the supply. Pickle, having a budding mustache, carries a pocket mirror and comb, and so can arrange his hair; but the rest are usually satisfied with a hasty smoothing with the hands—and since the hat goes on at once and stays on, why not? Because of the cold, all sleep in their stockings, which saves morning time, besides preventing bother in the lacing of the trousers. (It is at night and at the swim that stockings are changed.) Thus in the morning only the shoes and the leggings must go on; we are already in our sweaters, and so are soon prepared for the first formation. The cartridge-belt and rifle are dragged out from the straw and laid ready in case they are called for; then one can proceed with packing the squad-bag, and with striking the tent and separating the shelter-halves. Old Bann is a wise one; he always begins by securing his five tent-pins, and so leaves to me the responsibility of rummaging out the remaining five, of which one always dodges me for a while.

The second call sounds, to be followed by the first sergeant's whistle. "Corporals, get your men out! Belts and rifles!" There is snatching up and buckling, then there is scientific delay over packing, with eye and ear to the exhortations of sergeants and squad leaders; but at last even the slowest are on their way to the head of the street to take their places. The corporals are calling the numbers of their squads, "Six!" "Nine!" "Twelve!" and with anxious eyes are watching for their belated men. The line forms: there is a gap here for a smoking fire, and other gaps that mean absentees. Rear-rank men step forward to fill the places of their file-leaders, and as the assembly sounds the front-rank men are glad to slip, unobserved, into the vacant spaces in the rear. "Report!"—"First squad, present." "Second squad, private Smith absent." Smith, hurrying up, curses under his breath. "Police duty today," he knows, and makes a grimace at private Brown, who has found his place in the fourth squad just in time.

Once the reports are in, the first sergeant orders "Inspection—Harms!" With a rattle the guns are tossed up and opened; with another rattle, at the next command, they are closed and snapped. The sergeant salutes the waiting lieutenant, whose commonest proceeding, now on the hike, is to warn us of an early start. Then perhaps he orders "Stack arms!" and we grumble. A nuisance to have, in the company street, a line of stacks through which we may not pass. Then, dismissed, we return to our packing, always with an eye to the forming of a line at the cook tent. For no one wants to be late in that line, yet all wish to get forward with the packing. There is, on these cold mornings, another consideration: it is pleasantest to eat breakfast in sweaters, which we know must be discarded for the march. If the officers or sergeants come with "Hurry up those blanket-rolls!" off the sweaters must come, and the rolls are made. Otherwise, at the mess-call utensils are snatched up, and the men hurry to the head of the company street, to form the double line, and to be glad of the extra comfort that the sweaters give.

The meal disposed of and the meat-cans washed (or rather rinsed) the remaining packing is quickly finished. The rolls are made, the squad-bags are stuffed full, and both are carried to the trucks. The packs are made, and the belts, heavy with the fresh ammunition that has just been handed out, are hooked to them. A swing, a boost, a hitch or two, and our pappooses, our constant companions, are with us till we make camp, seven hours or more later. Then the whole company street is policed, and the hay piled in big cocks on which, in the early sun, the men loll during the last few minutes before the bugle calls.

Our second battalion was first in ranks this morning, drawn close together to hear the words of the major. There was to be, he presumed, a rencounter, or meeting engagement; he merely had sealed orders, to be opened at a certain spot on the route. Our battalion was to start first; he advised all officers to study the terrain as we passed along. And then we were off, while the first battalion was decorating its hats with white, and jeering at us as future enemies.

The trucks were a mile ahead of us; we saw the dotted line of their khaki tops marking the road that led out of the high basin in which lay the camp. As we too climbed the steady slope to the southeast we were willing to leave the dreariness of its unkept farms and get among the woods. Lyon Mountain, on the west, slowly drew its colored bulk behind the shoulder of a nearer hill while we came closer and closer among the maples. The shallow notch over which we passed was high and open; nothing overhung us, but the tawny tapestry of the woods ran up gentle slopes to the right and left, and the few evidences of farming, save for the all-present wire fences, faded quite away. The slope grew stiffer, but there was no slackening of pace. Heads bent low, chests began to labor, and the sweat rolled down. A welcome rest relieved us; then up we started and went on again, at each change of grade looking for the downward turn, and each time disappointed till—ah, there was a corner, and on the slope beyond we saw the column descending amid dust. Then we too turned the corner, and faced the view.

It was not wide, for the woods by the roadside (brilliant in the sun on the right, subdued in the, shade on the left) limited it to a V. Below was the valley, and beyond and above it, piling ridge on ridge, rose the hills, climbing to the shaded blue peak that loomed in the very middle. It was a picture, striking and complete.

In vain I looked for the lake, which in all our earlier landscapes showed between us and the hills. Then a reference to the sun showed that I was still looking in a southerly direction. Further, this great hill, so high and clear, was both taller and nearer than the Green Mountains could be. Someone behind me said "Whiteface," and I knew that I was looking straight toward the heart of the Adirondacks.

Again we made a turn, and the view broadened out. To the east the whole landscape sloped toward the sun, against whose rays the brilliance of the woods faded, though still amid the green one could see, to north or to south, the yellow, the orange, or the dotted scarlet of the flaming maples. The easterly view was less distinct; in the distant blue the hills flattened to a fairly low horizon.

But while, still marching, I idly gazed, my eye was caught by an odd trick of the sun which, now at nine o'clock well on its upward way, yet seemed to illuminate the bottom of a cloud that hung near the sky line. It was a sunset effect impossible by day, but there was the distinctly gleaming band. And then I knew—Champlain! It was the lake, turning faintly silver further north or further south. What I had thought to be a cloud was distant haze. And above it hung, at first unnoticed, the faint blue silhouettes of Mansfield and its neighbor peaks.

As we marched down the slope my neighbors, mindful of what was to come, said "Gee! Suppose we are to climb up this again?" But apprehension was soon lost in the interest of the town we now entered, whose great buildings (in which each squad threatened to leave its most obstreperous member) had been visible for some distance. Dannemora seems to be a town whose prosperity, in this out of the way place, depends solely upon the great prison that stands in its midst. We marched along beneath the huge wall that forms one side of the main street; it rose in places fifteen feet above our heads. Dust! dust! A school was let out; its scholars came streaming uphill to watch us, and to tag along beside us even after we had turned away from the great hospital of the prison, and were once more amid farms. Other school children were waiting for us along the road. We saw very little of the buzzard in this population; they handed or threw us apples, and the boys even undertook to fill canteens—the same old trick which the officers failed to detect.

Still we tramped on amid the dust which rose around us; if Saturday's was the wet hike, this was the dusty one. As we neared a crossroad we were given the command "Attention!" So we came to the right shoulder and straightened our ranks, that we might look better as we passed the General. Another quarter mile (we were an hour beyond Dannemora now) and the familiar motorcyclist, our messenger in so many skirmishes, darted by us to reach the captain. We grunted. And then "Squads left—march, company—halt!" We found ourselves facing the wall of bushes. "Prepare to load!" Who, we wondered, would accidentally fire now? Ah, the distant pop was from the next company, and we heard its men angrily jeering their clumsy mate.

Squads-left again, and now we were starting back on the way that we had come. Uphill of course, but we feared that worse was to follow, as we remembered the ridge that we passed some little distance back, and recalled the advantages it offered for defence. To be sure, J Company was now nearest it and should secure it, if the enemy were not too close. But a burst of shooting, not very far away, apprised us that they were already at hand. And then came the expected order, "Double time!"

The pace in double time, say the regulations, is thirty-six inches long; the cadence is at the rate of one hundred and eighty steps a minute. It is not a run. I have heard the captain call back a lieutenant and his platoon: "I didn't say Run; I said Double time!"—"An easy run," says the little blue book. An easy run! With eighteen pounds on the back, and eight around the waist, and another nine in the hand—an easy run! Oh, in that dust, and up that slope, it was pound, pound, pound, till my heart thumped like the engine of a little Ford at high gear on a stiff grade, and my knees (how well the ancients knew the importance of those joints!) were like lead. The breath was failing, failing—till at last in a burst of relief I got my second wind. But poor Corder! Three times, as I watched him laboring in front of me, he flagged. Three times he visibly mustered his powers and pounded on. The fourth time he was spent. He had already stepped out of the column, to let us pass him, when I heard the welcome whistle. "Halt!" Corder had strength to take his place again, we were hustled into the ditch for cover, and I found a grateful position on the ground. There was no talk; everyone was too busy with a shortness of breath.

The firing in our front was now more systematic, and was spreading to the left. It was not long before we were ordered to the right of the road, and marching in the ditch, went forward. Then double time again, for a short distance, and the line swung out into the road as it turned to the right into a field. Suddenly there was the major, ordering us back into the ditch, and his eye met mine in the midst of one of his remonstrances. "The road is always unsafe!" Look to yourself, major, I thought, as obediently I ducked aside and left him in the position of danger. A ploughed field brought us to a walk; we climbed a stiff ascent, then found ourselves facing a nasty bit of thick wood, through which we were ordered in squad columns. Down a slope and across a gully and up again; then we went through more open country, but still among trees. Finally we aligned ourselves behind the top of a little rise, where we might comfortably sit or kneel, having plenty of cover behind logs or stones. The enemy that tried to cross the ravine below us would have a surprise.

There followed all the confusion of an attack in the woods. We heard the enemy coming, saw at length the white hat-bands, opened fire, and heard his heavy answer. The firing slackened on our front, strengthened on our right, and our platoon was again detached, to take care of this new danger. As we waited at the edge of a wood, while the major held us for orders, a half-grown robin, with speckled breast, nervously flew about us as if he wished to take refuge from the noises that distracted him. Into the underbrush we plunged again, were posted here, and fired; were sent there, and fired again; were hurried at the double to the flank, where I, coming behind the rest, was held by the captain and posted with a rear-guard, to fire upon the enemy if he appeared across a little clearing. It was evident that the enemy's intentions could not be guessed in advance. I heard very rapid firing at my back, and a burst of cheering. Then the bugle blew, and the whistles sounded everywhere through the wood. Of the enemy I had had few glimpses, and in general I realized that the confusion had been extreme.

As I plodded through underbrush to rejoin my company, I came across some white-banded fellows who, with fixed bayonets and heavy breathing, had evidently just been charging. Meeting presently a member of our company, I asked him what had taken place in this part of the encounter. "Oh, those fellows? You never saw anything so foolish. They wandered out from the woods and fixed bayonets in the open, and we fired at them for five minutes, at a hundred and fifty yards, before they began their charge. Of course they stopped at fifty yards from us, the rule, you know. Then our lieutenant asked theirs what his men wore to make them bullet-proof, and we hoped there would be some back talk, for the other fellow was mad. Pendleton's tongue does cut. But an umpire came and ruled them out, and we're sure of them, anyway."

Well, fighting in the woods is "impossible," as the major explained to us later at conference. Apparently if it must be, it must, but there can be very little science in it. At the conference our officers explained what had happened at different parts of our line, and we were all sure that we had won. But I noticed that the two battalions held their conferences separately, and concluded that the same consoling deduction was being made at the other discussion. Yet one idea must have fixed itself in the mind of every thinking man there: we were too green, and some of our platoon-leaders were too green, for effective work under such circumstances. Once or twice on our skirmishes we have known that we did well, and after the wet fight toward Cherubusco our captain ventured the statement that he could make us soldiers in six months; but today I think he would have doubled the period, for it was plain that a veteran enemy determined to push his lines forward would have made short work of us in our confusion.

One thing I learned which I shall remember to my private advantage. The next time I find myself firing from behind a snake fence I shall not crowd forward into one of the corners. For that brings one's ears even with the muzzles of the rifles to the right and left, and the result is deafening.

We had delighted the foot-loose population of Dannemora, and perhaps had tantalized the poor fellows behind the bars; certainly we gave profitable employment to a score of professional buzzards, who turned up with their bags to search the woods where we had been firing. As for ourselves, we were soon on the road again and hiking in the dust, through country which was still too deserted and unkempt, with its brush pastures and scattered log houses, for the taste of a New Englander. At dips and turns of the road we saw the drab column winding before us; we passed through straggling Cadyville and came at last to the unwelcome macadam. Our feet, used to the gravel roads, found this unyielding surface tire us more in a mile than the other could do in five. I admit that I was thoroughly glad when at last we saw the camping ground, turned aside into the green grass, and pitched our tents. Some strap of the pack having slipped, the weight had irked me more in the last hour than it had done in all the nine days of the hike, and it was with great relief that I swung it from my shoulders.

Another proof of the mathematical formula that Food Indulgence equals Indigestion. A gormandizer from a neighboring squad has lately been very savage on account of dyspepsia. Yesterday he crawled out of bed with the sourest expression and would scarcely respond to greetings, spoke of his stomach, and intimated that he would ask to ride with the baggage. Yet he marched with us, preserving so gloomy a silence that Corder, experimenting, hailed him four times before he would answer. Then he vouchsafed, "Every step I take my stomach hurts me," and so he stalked on, alone amid the jollity of the marching column. We had reached camp, and were pitching tents, when I heard his bunkie demanding his whereabouts. He had disappeared, leaving his mate to do his work. But before long I heard his voice, entirely bright and happy, say "Sixty cents!" and there he stood in the midst of his squad, triumphantly holding up a big mince pie.

Today the poor man was down again, wrapped in gloom. Again he threatened to ask to ride, but again he managed to subdue his pains. Said I, "I suppose that pie is paying you back." He answered, "You don't understand. I have to buy those things because they give us so little sweet in our diet." One has to respect misery, however caused, and I bothered him no more.

But David has managed to subdue Pickle, who goes no longer to the buzzards' counters, and though he complains that the struggle is hard, he admits that the results pay. No more pains for him. So yesterday, though at the sight of the crisp pie Pickle's eye wandered toward the pastry booth outside the gate, when he caught David's warning glance he controlled himself and went on with his work.

It was here at Cadyville that, for the first time since leaving Plattsburg, we were able to have a real swim, or rather (since the water was like ice) we found depth enough and room enough for all. Over a meadow and down a bluff a path led from camp to a big paper mill which stood above a gorge of the Saranac River. The huge pile of pulp, at which men were picking and prying with pickaxe and canthook, ought to be a gold mine in these days of high prices of paper. Beyond was the dam, higher than a house on its clear side and (so we were told) of equal depth on the other. Along the sides of the big basin there was room for the whole regiment; and the dive from the dam—how the men yelled when their heads came out, and how they swam to get ashore again!

Our last afternoon in camp! We felt that we had earned repose after a day's hard work—a month's hard work! No more skirmishing among rocks, stumps, and barbed wire; no more firing of the gun, and no more cleaning of it. As we wished to hand the guns back in good condition, and as most of our patches and oil had given out, many of us took the friendly offers of the regulars (cavalrymen, bandsmen, cooks) who did the best business, working in pairs, that they had yet done. Even David relaxed the severity of his self-discipline, and handed out his gun and his quarter-dollar. We lolled, we talked thoughtfully, we already regretted. Men exchanged addresses, and made appointments for the distant future. I noticed that the squad kept pretty close together, as if knowing that soon it must separate for good. And now, rather seriously, the men are getting ready for the last Retreat.

(Evening.)

We have had our final conference, in a little amphitheatre at one side of the camp. As the dusk fell the General talked to us for the last time. He took up the subject of preparedness where he left it yesterday—what are we to do to face an emergency, all our present methods failing, the emergency, if it comes, sure to be so frightful? The old volunteer system has broken down in each of our wars—the Revolutionary, the war of 1812, the Mexican, the Civil. We have seen it, before our eyes, break down in England now. The volunteer system is unfair—why should one man fight for another equally fit? It is therefore undemocratic. There is only one thing left, universal training for all young men, and conscription in war of all of military age.

Two years ago I should have recoiled from this; a year ago I should have shaken my head doubtfully. Today I see with relief that there is this system to save us at need. It will save us whether there is war or, as we all hope, peace. You know how I have worried over our national future with this immense immigration, which yearly is less assimilated. The one thing which will teach the young immigrant American ideals and loyalty to his new flag, is service with all other young men for the same great purpose. How can they stand nightly at Retreat before the flag, hear the "Star Spangled Banner" played, salute the last sight of the colors—how can they do this for but a single month and not feel pledged forever to defend the old flag? I tell you, mother, when I realized tonight that this was our last Retreat something gripped my throat and brought the water to my eyes. Nor was I the only one, to judge from what I saw about me.

So when the General asked us, as I suppose he has asked previous regiments, to vote in favor of universal training, every man of us shouted Ay!

I have asked some of the squad if they mean to come again next year, in case the universal training movement does not put the training camps out of business. The answer is Yes, if they can get away again. Knudsen means to be in the cavalry; he would have gone with them this year if the regulations had not required first a period with the infantry. David I have not asked yet; but Corder will come back in spite of his years. "But I must go with the quartermaster's department," he said; and when I asked why: "It's plain enough that if I can't keep up in a charge I ought to go where I can be of real use. Now nothing is more important than the Q. M. department, and trained men are needed there as well as anywhere else. So that's my job in the next camp." It's plain he'd rather march in the ranks, but he will change rather than leave the preparedness movement to get along without him.

During the afternoon there had been piled truckload after truckload of cordwood at the end of the company streets. As the conference broke up someone lighted the heap, and soon the flames, before the wind, were leaping forty feet in the air. I took your latest letter from my pocket and could clearly read it, though at a hundred and fifty yards' distance. With shouts the crowd hastened to the fire, and company after company, each in a long line of men cheering for their officers, took its turn in a snake-dance around the blaze. As the bonfire dwindled to an immense heap of glowing coals, a deep semi-circle gathered, sitting above it on the hill, sang the songs of the hike, and called for solos from favorite singers. Chums walked up and down near the fire, or in the further darkness lay in front of tents and talked plans. Little groups gathered here or there, then restlessly broke up and shifted as men sought acquaintances for a last word that might be impossible tomorrow. In this shifting kaleidoscope of men I was glad to find Hale, cured of his bronchitis, and with a tale of how at the hospital they locked up the men's clothes, as the only way of preventing them from escaping too soon and rejoining the hike. The camp has been one last buzz of personal talks, excited, pensive, or regretful.

But all is quieting now, and I am sleepy. Love, much love, from

DICK.



FROM PRIVATE SAMUEL PICKLE TO HIS BROTHER

[Without date, but evidently of the same evening.]

DEAR OLD MAN:—

You'll see me soon, perhaps sooner than you want. But there's no help for it; I shall be turned out of here. Otherwise I should stay a month longer. Never had such a good time in my life. Oh, yes, I remember I've grumbled some; and I've lost six pounds and worn out two pairs of shoes. Never put your shoes near the fire or on a stove. But for hardening of the muscles and toughening of the hide, give me Plattsburg. If you have any complaints to make to me at any time, think well of them beforehand.

Our David that I've told you about, he turns out to be a true sport after all. Marches with the best of us, lives as dirty as we, enjoys it all. The young cuss, I've grown fond of him. What do you think his latest is? He's kept hammering at me till he's made me stop buying pies and things! Good for the pocket-book, but particularly good for my little insides. The last three days I haven't even had a hankering for something sweet. Tell Nelly she needn't bother to make chocolate layer cake when I come home, like I asked her to.

I swear I feel sorry to leave the squad. I've scarcely enjoyed this last night at all, and though I've made as much noise as anybody, it was so as not to show how bad I feel inside. I hate the idea of not seeing the captain again, and the Professor who bunks with me, and especially David who marches side of me. So I've come away from all the cheering and singing to write to you. David has asked me to write to him. And he meant it, too.

I'm not gloomy at coming home, you know. Really I'm crazy to see you all again. But if once in a while you see me sitting kind of lonesome, you'll know why.

SAM.



PRIVATE GODWIN'S LAST LETTER

Plattsburg, Oct. 5, 1916. Sitting alone, the last one in the old empty tent.

DEAR MOTHER:—

It will be hard for me to hold myself to the systematic narrative of this last day, I do so wish to leap to the end and to tell you great news. But I will be firm.

I was up early this morning, as I so often am. There is always the distant cavalry bugle to rouse one; it blows first. Seeing the embers of our great fire still glowing in the dusk, I went there to warm myself, and stood there listening to the sounds from the still sleepy camp. Drowsy voices, a footfall here and there, the crackle of fire and the tinkle of pots at the cook tents. Even when reveille had blown there was still for several moments this sleep-drugged quiet, in the first light of dawn.

Then there blared out the music of the full brass band in the opening crash of "Hail, hail, the gang's on deck!"

Silence no more. Yell upon yell, shout upon shout, cheer upon cheer—and for a space the brass could not be heard. The noise subsided to singing and to laughter, the music again held sway, and the camp, springing to its work in high spirits, was beginning on its last day. The last packing, the last mess together; then as the companies stood in line for the last march out, the band marched in and out of the company streets, playing to us for the last time, preceded by a score of howling dervishes, and followed by as many others, little Cupid (my second glimpse of him) struggling along in the rear. Then we were beginning our march, cheerful though on macadam, and though we had learned that once more we must skirmish, and so spoil the new spotlessness of our rifles. It was a lovely morning, hazy, but through the mist showing to the right a mountain with its lower sides glowing red. Not many miles to go, and we were glad as we covered each one; but at last we heard behind us the rifles of the cavalry, and turned to fight with them a rear-guard engagement.

There was an hour of it, first and last. It had its individual features, notably the tale of a squad which, after marching for some minutes under the point blank fire of our whole platoon, tried to outflank and attack us—but an umpire attended to them. Yet after all there must be sameness to my descriptions, and I will press on to the important matters.

We were deployed between two highways, one the main road from Cadyville, one running south of it. On account of our coming, various motorists had set out to meet us, and on the northern road were a number of cars, full of fluttering females. On the southern road stood but one. Now we were supposed to be retiring before a superior force; but their disposition offering an excellent chance to give them a jolt, our company was sent through the southern fields against their flank. There was much standing stubble and high weeds in the field through which we stole silently by rushes, Kirby behind us and urging us on, using only short blasts of his whistle as signals, and the vibrant tones of his penetrating voice. We were less than a hundred yards from the enemy and he had not discovered us; every man of us kept low to the ground, and never before had the company worked so like a machine. Our squad was on the outer flank, coming along the broken roadside wall, when I heard someone say from the lone car that we were approaching. "Aren't they doing it magnificently?"

I knew the voice. It was the old colonel, standing up in the car to watch us. With him were Vera, Frances, and their hosts the Chapmans.

The captain came close up and spoke to us. "Corporal, has your flank guard seen any outposts?"

Bann called across the road to Knudsen. "What have you seen?" He answered "Nothing."

Said the captain, "After the next rush I shall send your whole squad across. Forward now to the line of that row of apple trees ahead." And at Barm's "Follow me!" we slipped ahead not merely to the line of three old trees, but also to the position of the waiting motor, which was just abreast of us. While the rest of the company slipped forward to our line, I took a satisfying look at the girls. Frances saw me, and we smiled. Vera was absolutely intent on something behind me, of course the captain. And still not a shot from the flank-guard in front, I think a sleepy platoon under a sergeant. We chuckled. But then a gun went off in our line somewhere on the right. We swore. Ahead of us the enemy broke into a crackle of gunfire, not very heavy.

In it, so few were the guns that were firing, I clearly distinguished, among the short dull explosions of the blanks we know so well, a sharp and angry crack, followed by a tearing snap right over my head.

Surprised, I yet recognized the noise of the passage of a bullet. A second time!—and then, familiar as I am with the legend of the clip of ball cartridges, I instantly knew it to be true. And again—Crack-snap! I heard the old colonel crying to the ladies, "Down!"

Then a long blast of the captain's whistle. I knew he was on his feet behind me, then heard his voice through the sputter of fire that was beginning from our own line. "Cease firing!" Over my shoulder I looked at him, a fine manly figure in the attitude of command, one hand stretched threateningly toward the line in front.

Then, as the roar of our guns burst out on the right, his hat flew backward, I saw blood start out on his temple, and as if an axe had struck him, he was down!

Quickly as I was on my feet, someone was quicker. A flash of white went past me, and there was Vera on her knees, gathering into her lap the head of the fallen man. I heard her little moaning cry.

In the few moments that followed I stood stupidly helpless. Our fire stopped suddenly, as the sergeants enforced the captain's command. The fire stopped in front. In the little circle of the branches of the old tree we were quiet as—yes, as the grave. Vera, holding the captain's head fiercely close, looked wildly round for help. It was Frances who slipped by me and with her handkerchief wiped away the blood that stood upon the temple.

Oh, the relief! A long red bruise showed where the bullet had passed.

And then he opened his eyes. Vera, looking down on him, said quite simply, "Are you all right, Allan?"

Was he all right? Was he in heaven? At the look on his face I turned away with sudden tears in my eyes. The rest, I know, also avoided that solemn privacy. As it came about, mother, I turned toward Frances, and she, quite overcome, to me. In such a moment of emotion, things happen. As she rested on my breast, we found that she belonged there.

It was the trampling of the major's horse that brought us to ourselves. The captain, though pale and unsteady, was on his feet. Bannister had drawn the squad quietly out of the shade of the tree. They were looking at the landscape; as for the major, he was most inscrutable, which happens, you know, when there is something to scrutinize. Said he very innocently: "The lieutenant will take the company in, Captain Kirby. I think we'd better ask your friends here to bring you to the surgeon.—Call your men together, Mr. Pendleton!"

The lieutenant, pale as the captain, yet looking very resolute, stepped up to him and wrenched his hand, bowed over Vera's, turned about and blew his whistle. With his hand he signalled the assembly. And good Bannister, very apologetic at interrupting my love-making, said diffidently "Hem! Squad Eight, fall in!"

But I kissed Frances before them all, and helped the captain into the tonneau, where they established him very comfortably between the two girls. It was not till I had got a smile from him and a proud look from Vera that I went to my place in the company. As I went I saw out of the corner of my eye the major and his staff holding an inquest on the platoon that had fired on us. I wondered who had had that clip of ball cartridges.

But they never found out. We rested for a while at the crossroads, and I can tell you I had to stand some banter from the squad after the motor had shot by us, with Frances's handkerchief fluttering to me. There was very excited speculation as to the penalty for shooting the captain; some were for a military execution when we got to camp, with burial on the drill field. But the major came and told the lieutenant, and he passed the word to the company—the men who fired on us had used up all their cartridges and moved from the ground before they had been accused of the use of ball; no one knew, apparently not even themselves, who had fired the dangerous shots. It might happen, you know, that a stupid or excited man might load with ball and not be aware of it. As for me, I'm not finding any fault, nor are certain others that I could name.

The march in to camp? To tell the truth, I don't remember much of it, for I was thinking a good deal. One poor chap we passed as he waited for the hospital truck to come along and pick him up, a disappointed man of fifty, who held his head down and would not look at us as we tramped by in sympathetic silence. As we entered the residence quarter of Plattsburg, where people lined the streets, the whistles blew Halt and we were waved to the two sides of the street: "Fall out to the right and left." We dropped down on the grass all around a rock where two pretty girls had ensconced themselves to see us pass; instead, we saw them run! Then on we went through the town, marching at attention, with everybody out on the streets to watch the last of the rookies of 1916.

But when we reached the post there was evidently to be a March Past, for the band was playing ahead of us, stationed opposite the general and his staff. We braced ourselves up, swung into line—and there was the captain in front of us! Very pale he was, with a bit of white bandage showing under the hat that had the hole in it. But he was firm on his feet. What a yell for a moment we let out! Then like veterans we followed him with his old familiar stride, and if there was a break in all our line—no, I can't believe it. We saluted the general, the lieutenant broke us into column of squads, and then we gave Eyes Right to the captain, who stood at salute as we marched by.

The break-up was a heart-rending affair. So much had we been delayed by the unexpected skirmish and the little investigation that there was only the smallest amount of time to turn in our equipment, get our baggage, and catch the trains that would not wait. So in the scrabble were no real good-bys, no friendly little chats about the past and future, no appointments for reunions. I did not even shake hands with Bannister as he hurried to the boat that for some reason was his means of getting away. There were just two little events that I can describe to you.

As we marched into camp David was uneasy, and acknowledged frankly that he was afraid his mother would be there to take him home in the motor. But the familiar strawberry limousine was nowhere to be seen, and as we swung into the company street we saw not David's mother, but his father in his ancient Panama and his wrinkled business suit. The boy shouted his delight, and when we broke ranks he dragged his father to the tent and introduced him to as many of us as he could pin down for a moment. And a little later, catching both Knudsen and me, he kept us in the tent while he reminded his father of a promise. "You know, father, you said you'd give me any kind of an automobile I wanted, if I stayed through the hike."

Mr. Farnham had been deeply pleased, you could see it in his face, that David had grown so manly. Consequently he was the more disappointed at this prompt practical demand. But though a shade crossed his face, he answered kindly, "You've earned it, David."

David put a hand on my arm, and on his other side drew Knudsen a little closer to him, as if for support. "Then, father, I want a Ford!"

"A Ford?" cried his father. A Ford! thought I—a four hundred dollar car when he might spend his thousands?

"Yes," said David, a little unsteadily. "I want to learn to take one apart and put it together, and then I want you to send another Ford ambulance to France, with me to drive it."

A glorious smile broke over the father's face, of pride, and fondness, yet also of possible sacrifice of this son who was now first showing his manhood—for there is danger in that ambulance service. I saw the story was true that Mr. Farnham has been sending ambulances abroad; and saw also that David had been afraid of his father's opposition to a scheme which he had been hatching in secret. So he had felt the need of my support and Knudsen's. But the father held out both hands to his boy, and Knudsen and I slipped quietly out of the tent and walked together, without saying a word, down to the edge of the drill-field.

Said Knudsen then: "Since it's settled now, that silly mother can't interfere."

I was feeling pleased that though at first I had studiously neglected David, he had needed me now. Knudsen's mind travelled much the same road.

"A good investment," he said, "the trouble we've put into that youngster."

I had a little talk with Mr. Farnham before the train went. He was overflowing with happiness. David had somehow got the idea of service, and unknown to us had been planning his life by it. First to help in this emergency in France, then to find some way in which a rich man could give his time to his country, in some branch of public service. It was fixed in his mind that next summer he must be at Plattsburg again, working for a commission in the reserve. Beyond that he would need his father's advice and help.

"So there's something more in life for me now," said the father, "than the mere making of money."

It was in the midst of all the hurry and confusion of our getting ready to go that I heard a great shouting at the head of the street, and going to see, found the captain there, and Vera watching from a little distance. He had come to take personal leave of those he knew best, shook hands with every one, called scores of us by name, thanked us all for our help in his work, showed in his face his great new happiness. When those who pressed upon him first had gone away, driven by the necessity that was on all of them, he called me to him and made me promise not to leave with the rest, but at least to stay overnight—for we were to be brothers now, he said, and must know each other better before we separated. While a new group came and talked with him I went to Vera.

"Frances is waiting in the car outside," she said, scarcely glancing at me, but with eager eyes watching the captain and the men who still pressed upon him.

"Is he popular now?" I asked. "Do the men love him? Don't you approve of him a little bit yourself?"

This roused her into giving me all her attention for a moment. "Oh, Dick," she cried, remembering, "if it hadn't been for what you said to him, perhaps—!" She couldn't quite express the tragedy that would have followed.

"Perhaps it would have taken a little longer, that is all," I said. "There, watch him, do." For in spite of herself her eyes would stray back to him. "Frances will be nice to me." And Frances was, until I told her I must go back to the boys.

There was a minute or two here and there that I could get from the busy men. But mostly I helped them get away, cleaned their guns, handed in their stuff, helped them pack, lugged their baggage with them to the train. Knudsen and I and Clay had one last short walk together, up and down the embankment beside the train, soberly vowing friendship for the future. Then the conductor gave the signal, they climbed aboard, there was a short half-minute of waving of good-bys, and I walked back alone across the empty drill field.

I am sitting now upon my bag in the tent which has so often rung with our laughter or buzzed with our talk. Here are the ridges and hollows made by our feet, over in the corner are Clay's old shoes, and near me lie three empty shells that David threw out of his pocket. Our equipment is all turned in, the buzzards in our absence carried everything else away, and this lonely silence is more than I can bear. In a few minutes I shall close this last letter to you; then Frances will come in the car to take me to a telegraph office, where I shall wire you that she and I are starting home tomorrow with the Chapmans, and shall not be home for three days more. As I shall hint at the reason, you will understand and will forgive me this delay. I know, dear mother, that your heart always was with Frances, after all.

And so good-by to Plattsburg!

DICK

THE END