Part 10

In the afternoon the captain formed us in the street and drilled us in the manual, then took us down on the field and explained battalion parade, after which he put us through and through and through its simple evolutions, we blundering all the time. We had merely to march in line, to march in column, to halt and bring our rifles down together, and to do the customary movements of the manual in unison. But try as we might, we couldn't please the captain. For my part, I was as scared as a schoolboy, fearing to make some slip. But such little ones as I know I made passed unnoticed; in fact, our part of the line attracts very little of his attention, so I conclude we do fairly well. Yet in the picture which I send, of the captain looking at our squad as we march company front, the camera has caught Squad 8 in a great mistake. The sun, as it lies exactly along the line of the company, with only the right hands and knees in full light, shows my part of the line pushed wholly forward out of the shadow, and the Captain looking at us in disgust. His attitude shows his fighting quality. "The scrappiest captain in the army," says Knudsen. So often he has to look back thus and warn us: "Steady!" or "Guide!" or "Hold back on the left!"

How little you as a spectator would get of what goes on in the ranks on such an occasion as today's final parade! Suppose you were where I so often wish you, at the top of the slope above the field, which in spite of certain unevennesses would look to you fairly level. You would see the band march down and take its place in the left corner; then away to your right the companies would appear in their separate columns, and perhaps you would think they were very interesting as they halted and waited. Then when the major came and took his stand below you, the music would strike up, and the three companies would march straight onto the field, along the bottom of which they would one after another swing into line and stand in apparently beautiful order. Then an adjutant with a clear high voice would give orders, and the men would present arms, come to attention, and then to parade rest. In this position they would remain while the band, playing a march, would go down the whole line and back again, the music, when they were once more in place, abruptly stopping. Then the officers would gather and march forward in line, they would return, the major would call a command, and the companies would all break into squads, the rifles coming to the shoulders. To the right they would pass, turn up the slope, and then one by one would again swing into line and pass, with more or less beautifully wavering fronts, before the major. The first two companies would evoke applause from the spectators; the third, in which you would see a familiar face, would rouse none—and though you might clap your best, in this case you are but a ghost, and no one would hear you. Then the companies would for last time break into squads and so would march off the field. And you would sigh and think, "Isn't it fine?"

Well, you would never get the true inwardness unless I told you. It went this way.

Down out of the street we marched into the field, I a small part of a big machine, very much afraid that I might make some blunder. The men's feet thudded in unison on the sod, and to each tramp came the rustling echo of our stiff breeches, always an accompaniment to us as we march in good order. We waited, we marched forward to the music, we heard the captain give his first order—to the guides, I realized, not to us—but then came "Squads left—march!"

I swung to the left, the men in front of me marched to the right. Just grazing the last of them, as these rear-rank men filed to their places, I stepped into my position in the front rank just as the corporal finished counting "Six" below his breath, and at "Seven!" the whole line, which had been waiting for us Number Ones to complete it, strode straight forward. "Company—!" and we took this last moment, each out of the corner of his eye searching to the right, to get in good line. "Halt!" Low voices counted "One, two!" and the halt was completed. "One, two, three!" and the pieces were at the order. The captain commanded "Right—dress!" and we edged forward, our heads turned to the right, to align the rank.

Such eager work we make of it—"Forward on the right—back in the next squad—Frothingham, you're too far forward—tell Neary to get back!" Such commands, all under the breath, run up and down the line. At last we are in place, the Captain says "Front!" and takes his place before the middle of the line, facing away from us. But he says in reminder, "The next command for you will be Parade Rest."

Alas, Lieutenant Pendleton's high tenor (he is the adjutant for the day) calls "Guides—posts!" We knew—we ought to have known—the order; we had been warned to ignore it. But some of the men come to parade rest. The captain hears, though he cannot turn to look. "Stupid!" he hisses. "As you were!" Then comes the command for us all, "Parade—rest!"

It was very comfortable, waiting while the band marched up and down. We were not much stirred by this; we knew by heart all the few tunes; we thought the drum-major very tiresome with his bent head and his elbow jogging for the time. But there was, above the ugly mess-shacks straight in front, the finest sunset to look at: angry clouds to the right, to the left wide reaches of pure blue, with tiny white clouds stretching in rank to infinite distance, and in the middle the yellow glow of fire behind broken masses, through which shot, not beams of light, but rather, it seemed, wide bars of shadow.

The captain, as we thus stood at parade, hissed back over his shoulder, "Bad! Some of you men have your feet too far back." This would particularly disgust him, for at previous practice, taking a gun from a sergeant, he stood in front of us and said, "Let me show you how Rip Van Winkle here in the second squad comes to parade rest," and gave us a ludicrous example of slowness and slovenliness. Then he illustrated, in briskness and correct position, just how we should do it.

Returned to his place after saluting the major, he said, looking straight in front, "Your next command is Squads Right." The major's big voice boomed: "Pass in review—squads right—March!" I turned sharply to my right, marked time, and when the other three had come into line, together we stepped out. The band blared out, we were in step, and so approached the corner. "Column left!" and we did our best to turn correctly, though nobody could see. Then we marched up the slope, knowing that the real test was now coming. "Squads left!" and as the rear rank man made way for me, I stepped into place, and in one line we all strode out together. To hold the line straight! You on the top of the slope may have cried "How pretty!" at the rifles all with the same slant, the hands at the same height, the heads straight front, the feet—one, two! one, two!—in perfect time with the music. But with us in the line there was intentness to remedy any unevenness, strain to hold ourselves just right. We could not look except out of the corners of the eyes; all was done by the touch of the elbows. For a few yards, rods, it was good. We safely crossed a slimy patch where a great puddle had just dried, through which on Monday I tramped ankle deep, and where now a fall would be natural. Then—ah! we expected this! Frothingham, I, Knudsen, found ourselves marching alone, the other men out of touch with us, having drawn away to the right and left. I heard my mates grumble, I knew what I was to do: spread myself to occupy all possible space and march straight onward, for—there! they were back again, surging from the left and right, back in their proper places, and the line had not really broken. "Good!" murmurs Knudsen. "Hold it!" exhorts the captain over his shoulder. Then "Eyes right!" and thus saluting as we passed the major we could see, or thought we saw, a perfect line. "Front!" We swept on; we listened. The ladies had clapped the first two companies, but there was no applause for us. Had it then been bad after all?

Back to the street we marched, and formed in line. Lieutenant Pendleton came and spoke to the captain, then walked away smiling. "The lieutenant says you did well," said the captain briefly. But he was so short that we thought him grumpy, especially since the lieutenant had never before been seen to give us anything else than his little ironical smile. Yet at company conference, in the evening, one of us ventured to ask the captain if we really had done badly. "No," said he. "I was pleased with you. You did well. The major said you did best." So the lack of applause meant nothing. I saw men whose home affairs are so large that this might properly be small to them, look at each other in relief.

Today I got a letter from Walt Farnham about his cousin Lucy. He says: "I know you won't baby him. The camp ought to do him good. It was I that put the idea into his head, but his father, afraid that he might back out at the last minute, or not stick it through, has promised him an auto of his own when he gets back, anything up to twelve thousand dollars. How can even Plattsburg save such a boy?"

And Vera is after him now. After conference I was writing in the company tent, the inner one, while the captain still talked outside to half a dozen men. To my surprise a bell rang behind me, and while I sat looking at a curious instrument on the post, wondering if it were a telephone, the captain came in, took from it a strange receiver-transmitter, and spoke into it. I heard Vera plainly answering, and the captain, saying "Mr. Godwin is right here," gave me the thing to hold. She said "Oh, Dick!" so plainly that of course the captain heard it as he went out again. Vera told me that Mrs. Farnham has written her, asking her to keep an eye on her darling, and I was to send Lucy to call. I warned her she'd much better leave him alone, but she laughed and insisted. The telephone was in that state, or she spoke so plainly (you know how it occasionally happens) that anyone could have heard her even in the outer tent. When I hung up and went out, there was the captain just saying good night to the men, and the table and benches would not let me slip by before he turned and saw me.

You know there are moments when eyes meet and seem to catch, and it is difficult to pass without speaking. That is why, I am sure, the captain said: "You are very well acquainted with Miss Wadsworth?"

I thought that here was a chance for the truth. "I ought to be," I said. "I have been engaged to her for the past two years." And then seeing, by the instant change in his face to one of deepest gravity, what he supposed me to mean, I added, "She broke the engagement a month ago."

"Oh," said he, not relieved, mother, or not showing relief, but very seriously kind, "I'm sorry, Mr. Godwin."

"Thank you, captain," I said, and got myself away. I don't mind having told; indeed I did it deliberately, quite for the good of his peace of mind. It's always a relief to strike one rival off the list, and if ever he gets really interested in Vera he'll find plenty of others blocking the way.

When I gave David Vera's message he flushed up at first with pleasure, then remembered that an evening call would spoil a company conference, which he has taken to attending. As usual, he looked to Knudsen for advice, and that wily person said, "Go in the afternoon and perhaps you'll miss her," which relieved the boy considerably. Our time is too horribly full for social calls.

Tomorrow evening there is to be a company boxing match, one-minute rounds, no decision given. It is said that Randall has entered, and Pickle remarked thereupon, "I'd like to have the laying of him out." "No fear," said Corder. "Randall is to box a man he knows, for points only, very gently." "Yellow," said Clay. Lucy said nothing, but looked a good deal. There actually are coming lines of firmness around his mouth.

Good-by.

DICK.

PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER

Plattsburg, Thursday the 21st Sept.

DEAR MOTHER:—

I am writing at about 7.30 o'clock on the range, after having fired my practice shots to make my sighting sure, and now with time to wait before my rapid-fire test. Imagine the usual confusion, the heavy rapping of the shots, the calling over of names, and the buzz and laughter of the men waiting near me. A perfect morning, the dew just burning off, a little breeze from the lake, and not a cloud in the sky.

We are shooting from the two hundred yard mark, sitting position, and since I have watched a few rounds, I am able to tell you the way of it.—As the guns become silent with the disappearance of the targets the Lieutenant calls, "Next men up!" Those who have just shot rise and nervously stand aside, to watch the scoring of their ten shots. The new men, while loading and locking their pieces, also watch the record of their predecessors. Passing behind D Company a few minutes ago, I saw the flag cross one target six times. I did not see the beginning of the score, and how many more misses the poor devil made, I can only guess. The men go away with their scores, the new ones stand waiting.

From the left rings the high call, "Ready on the right!" The lieutenant responds to his men, "Unlock your pieces." To the waiting men the interval is long. Then slowly the blank targets begin to sink and the tops of the true ones to rise. It is the signal. The men drop to the sitting position and settle the butts in their shoulders; the muzzles rise, waver, and steady. Then together "Pol-lop!" and the whole line, faster and faster, bursts into the rap-rap-rapping of the continued fire. Along the line, little spurts of flame; a thin haze rises from the muzzles and at once disappears. Beside each shooter kneel two coaches, one calling the time, the other exhorting, warning, entreating. A distinct lag in the firing between forty-five and fifty seconds—the men are loading their second clips. Then the fire gradually quickens to the full rate, the coaches urging the slow ones on, holding the hasty ones back. The fire slackens, and seems stopped, when as the targets sink at the ninety seconds, two last hasty shots slap out. The round is over. In the brief time the three dozen men have fired three hundred and sixty shots.

(Later.) My turn approached, and I stood waiting, the sling clasped on my arm. I felt the strain of the long wait before there came the call, Ready! To my coaches I had said—to one, "Don't let me shoot too fast, and keep me on my target"; to the other, "Remind me to squeeze." Then the blank target, beside the great 28, began to sink, and down I dropped. I was not nervous now; at least I did not tremble. I tried to fire slow, to squeeze, to keep on my own target, (for truly, as the captain lately said, firing on another man's target is one of the sad things of life.) My second clip I had to shoot quicker until my last shot, when the coach said, "Plenty of time." So I sighted and squeezed my best, felt that I could call the bullseye, and pulling out the bolt for the last time, to show that the breech and magazine were empty, stood up and stepped back. Now for the score.

The target rose at last. The red disk was all I hoped for, but there came the white, again the white, again the white, again, again, again, then three times the red, and once the black. I still waited, having lost count. Would the flag come now? But no, the target sank, and my coaches congratulated me on a forty-five!

(Evening. In the tent.) Well, I won't put in too much detail for you, to whom perhaps this shooting has no interest. We finished at two hundred yards and moved back, carrying benches, racks, chairs, flags, everything, and began over again at three hundred yards, prone. The men were mostly very much on the stretch, and I admit that I was, for while I now was practically sure of my grade of marksman, I might, by shooting especially well, even become a sharpshooter. Lucy was in a similar state, marksman being within his grasp. Randall was swaggering; he had been shooting well. But Knudsen was very anxious, surprising in so cool a fellow. "To be Expert," he said, "I've got to make a fifty. Confound it, I'm afraid that shot I sent into the wrong target will ruin my chances. I need the little leeway it would give."

Well, he missed it by two, and that little error undid him. Lucy got his grade of marksman, and his excitement was delightful. He sought out each member of the squad and called for congratulations. How disgusted his mother would be to see him with his hand on Pickle's shoulder, discussing the score, for really, don't you know, socially Pickle is less than nobody! I made my grade as sharpshooter, just made it, with a forty-nine.

Poor Reardon! His scores had not been good, only a miracle could make him marksman, but he lost his chance. Loretta—

I'll tell you about Loretta, a sergeant whom the boys have nicknamed thus. Luckily he is not in our platoon; but we soon got to know the lofty smile with which he passed up and down the street, and his contempt for the enlisted man. Such, my dear mother, is the inflating power of a little authority.

Well, he has been very busy with the shooting, making a good record himself, and helping, as all the sergeants did, with the scoring. Needing a scorer at one of the targets, he took poor Reardon and put him at work just when his last turn was coming on, and in spite of the fact that he had already served long hours at the job. Reardon protested, Loretta promised to let him have his turn, but when the shooting was all over there was poor Reardon still at the desk, and his last round was not fired. We noticed that on the way back to camp he was very silent and cast down, but we did not know why till we were cleaning our guns in the tent, all the racks being occupied outside. Then I questioned Reardon, and the facts came out.

All of us were wrathy, but you should have seen Lucy! Tears of anger came into his eyes as he started up. "I'll go at once and tell the captain!" Reardon clutched him. "No," said the good fellow. "I hadn't a chance to qualify. It's perfectly true. Loretta told me so."

"Loretta told you so!" echoed David. He was quite white and shaking at this instance of adding insult to injury. "By God!"

He was for going at once and complaining, but Reardon wouldn't let him. "Then," said David, "wait till the hike. If you don't get even with him then, I will!"

I wouldn't tell this story to David's mother. She might think her son too sympathetic with an "outsider."

The fellows have been in the habit of cooing at Loretta as he passes their tents. His pet name precedes him down the street, the coos come from the shadowed interiors. It has been meant harmlessly. But this story of Reardon has spread rapidly, and I thought I detected a snarl in the cooing when Loretta just went by. There is something in David's threat. Wait till the hike!