Part 14

There are thistles in this straw!

Last night I saw a lost soul. Rousing, as I often do, at one o'clock, I stood at the door of the tent, admiring Orion in the east and the constellations overhead. I heard a little murmur of complaint, and saw a man come stumbling down the street, his bare feet softly thudding on the stones, and drawing from him this sad sound as he came shivering along in pajamas. He was stooping at each tent and peering in to discover his lost place. So he passed out of my sight, but when I once more turned to admire Orion I saw the same unhappy phantom wandering along the next company street, still stumbling, still shivering, still silently searching for his couch. As for me, I turned in again and slept.

(Later, and more legible.)

We have broken camp, all the tents being struck; and next we have been given a lesson in military neatness. Each company has had to police its street, to fill all tent-ditches and fireplaces, and to pick up each bit of rubbish and scrap of paper. Our squad having had a meeting upon the subject, has agreed that immediately upon making up our packs we shall police our own ground, either bury the rubbish in the ditches or burn it in the fire, using if necessary a little of our hay, and pile the rest of the latter as quickly as possible, to get the work over with. This is in response to the captain's latest, for finding a single scrap of paper as big as a postage stamp in the street, he turned out a whole squad to pick it up. Next time, he says, it will be a platoon. We know Kirby too well by this time to suppose he doesn't mean what he says.

I am writing as I loll on a pile of hay, while my neighbors are vigorously resenting the demand of the farmer who sold us the hay last night, that we rise and relinquish it to him—in order that he may sell it again tonight. Much angry computation as to his profits per ton, and a warning that, as on account of our ignorance he raised the tariff on us yesterday, we should never again pay more than ten cents per tent.

(As we stand waiting in rank.)

Orders for today have been issued. The enemy cavalry and machine guns are at Sciota, some miles north of us. We are to go against them, with our battalion as advance guard, Company I in the lead, our company supporting them four hundred yards behind.

(Resting on the road.)

We have been marching at hot speed, having no one to set the pace for Kirby, now that at last we have passed I company. For a while we had to wait on them while they drove the enemy, hearing their firing, and at every halt sending out patrols. At last we drew near the firing line, which had been pretty hard at work, but which drew aside by the roadside (being either dead or out of ammunition) to let us go by, while we acclaimed them as having died heroically in our defense. Then came urgent work on our part, till now, as we halt, the platoon leader is telling us that we are to go forward over a wire fence, deploy behind a stone wall, and wait for the field battery to shell the enemy.

—And now we have crawled through the wire, and are comfortably watching the lieutenant of artillery while, with his instruments all fixed, he is getting the range of the enemy, these, you know, being the cavalry, who every day, I suppose, will precede us out of camp and try to make it lively for us during the morning. A voice asks, "Where are the cavalry?" and someone answers "Intrenched," which is not so foolish as it sounds, they being equipped for the purpose, and being drilled to fight dismounted. But intrenching should not be necessary in a country provided, as this one is, with stone walls. Other companies are deploying on our left, and we wait before that most dangerous of all attempts, a direct frontal attack. The enemy, the captain has just explained, is a half mile away across a slight depression. At Bunker Hill our men waited till they could see the whites of the red-coats' eyes. At Fredericksburg our attacking men were helpless at a hundred yards. But here as soon as we have crossed the wall we shall be exposed to a deadly fire, not only of rifles, but of machine guns. Of these the enemy have two on motor tricycles, and it is understood that the call of their sirens is a signal that they are in action.

(And again resting.)

We have the machine guns, mother dear. The cavalry got away, all but three or four of them. This was how it went.

When the field artillery had sufficiently pounded the enemy (and having but few rounds this did not last very long) we were given the order to advance. First we went over the wall,—and you must remember that every fence in this country, stone, snake, or otherwise, is decorated with barbed wire—and formed our line, lying flat, a couple of rods beyond it. Now we put in practice for the whole battalion the tactics we had studied by platoons, sending men forward from the right by squads in rushes, making a new line by degrees, always keeping a constant fire on the enemy—for we had a hundred rounds today, so that if we were decently accurate we should make him too nervous to be very dangerous in return. We went about fifty yards at a time, our sergeants and platoon leaders in the rear, behind them the captain and his orderlies and behind all the major and his aides. Certain officers with white bands on their arms, who ventured unconcernedly into the line of fire, I made out to be umpires judging this game of war. For I find, mother dear, that this is earnest for the officers as well as ourselves—we and the enemy have maps, we know the general conditions, and then each acts as in time of war, trying to get the better of the opponent. So that if an officer has properly trained his men, and if in addition he shows good judgment, then he can feel that he is advancing in his profession. The major, working for the first time today with a battalion under him (for last camp he was but a captain) was as keen at the work as if real bullets had been flying across the little valley. Meanwhile the umpires, studying the strategy of both sides, are themselves learning.

Well, we got forward rush by rush, firing as we lay waiting, getting ready at the word, and then following Bannister as he quartered forward to the right or left to join the new line. As we neared the stone wall behind which the enemy was firing we could see his white hat-bands, when to my disgust along came an umpire and ruled out the rear rank. Wanting to be in at the death, I changed places with Corder, who was "all in," and so I finished out the final charge, when the captain came through the line with a rush and we up and followed him yelling. The enemy very obligingly vacated the wall as we approached, and all we saw of the cavalry was their dust as they departed, except a squad whom the umpires called back.

One machine gun I did not see, nor have I heard how it was captured. But one was stalled a little distance behind the wall, and I followed the captain as he made for it. The two men on it were swearing wonderfully, being regulars; the captain snapped his pistol in the air as he ran, and I likewise fired my gun upwards, it being the rule of this campaign neither to fire nor to present the bayonet at close quarters. Seeing they could not get away, the men were actually ready to fight, and I think had we been rookies we might have had to scrap for it; but seeing an officer they saluted and sullenly submitted.

(In camp near Crossroads 75, south of Sciota, N. Y., Tuesday evening.)

I am sitting on a piece of canvas, being one among a dozen or more men outside the Y. M. C. A. tent, all writing. Men constantly come between me and the light or step on my outlying portions; there is much cheerful talking and laughing, and all about is the usual bustle of the camp.

We arrived at camp late, as battle-scarred warriors, and found the peaceful first battalion already encamped. At once we pitched tents and then hastily fed; at home, after hours of such exertion, I should have had a half hour's rest before eating. But the food was ready and hot; if I did not take it at once I could not get it at all; so my stomach took the risk, and I had my meal first and my rest afterward. Then a wash in oh! such a soft-bottomed sluggish brook, where many shaved, and others to my amazement cleaned their teeth. For that ceremony I keep my canteen water, which is served out to us at the head of the company street in proper dippers by orderlies; it is all I shall have, I foresee, both for drink and for absolutely necessary washing. We have better holding-ground for our tent-pins tonight, but the sky is cloudless and again we have not trenched. There are northern lights—a change in weather? The hay today cost but ten cents, and the adjutant assures us of that tariff in future.

Imagine the camp as yesterday, and me well. Love from

DICK.

EXTRACT FROM THE LETTER OF ERASMUS CORDER, ASSISTANT-PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, HIGH PRIVATE IN COMPANY H, 10TH TRAINING REGIMENT, TO HIS WIFE. SAME DATE

... Instead of yesterday's steady marching, with the first battalion driving the enemy away for our convenience, duties were today reversed, and our battalion took the advance-guard work, ending in a very bloody skirmish, in which, I regret to report, one dear to you was slain. We marched—and it was marching!—at a good pace after the first few miles, having no one ahead to hold us back except when we had to duck into the roadside ditches to avoid machine-gun fire. Our advance guard had died gallantly and cheered (jeered?) us as we went forward to dislodge the enemy. The problem was explained to us: the enemy was 800 yards ahead, having command of a shallow valley, which we must cross. This we did by rushes, squads or platoons at a time, three companies abreast no sooner achieving a new line than they sent forward more feelers. In this action it was very interesting for a time to simulate real firing, shooting with blank cartridges at an enemy behind a stone wall.

And yet shooting from behind hard heaps of stone, or lying on rough ground, through grass and leaves that obscured the sights, all the time troubled by a heavy pack that burdened the shoulders, poked the hat over the eyes, and hampered the free action of the arms, began to wear on me. Try as I may, I cannot master the little sidewise shift of the pack which the captain showed us, and which Godwin says makes shooting prone "just as easy!" Looking at the other men, I often saw them flop on their faces to rest; they were working as hard as on the range. The pretense of firing, when our cartridges were gone, took away some of the excitement. Then at about the fifth dash, which the others took with some briskness but which I had to finish at a slow jog, I began to get pumped. When the first sergeant asked me how I was I told him that I was shot through both lungs. Nevertheless, I finished (though at a walk) the next to last charge, but our dash had been so exposed that, by the time I had thrown myself panting on some particularly jagged stones, an umpire came along and announced that all rear-rank men were to fall out, of course as being dead. Godwin was disgusted, and evidently seeing my envy in my face, swapped places with me. Never was anyone so willing to be killed. Quite at my leisure I watched the spirited advance of the thin line of o. d. men to storm the enemy's position. And I was perfectly willing not to be killed twice.

Our little club of middle-aged men still holds its impromptu sessions, members comparing experiences and solicitously inquiring as to each other's condition. So far as I can see we are keeping up pretty well, except for the ability to make such awful repeated dashes as today's work required. And even then a few minutes' rest sets us on our feet again.

Pitching the tents, making camp, etc., is now routine work. The encampment is as picturesque as before. Tomorrow night we also spend here; whether or not we shall mercifully be permitted to leave the tents pitched, the morning will decide. But I am well, and blisterless, and refreshed, and tomorrow shall be ready to die again.

Lovingly,

ERASMUS.

FROM PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER

Sciota, Wednesday the 27th.

DEAR MOTHER:—

You need not worry about my sleeping warm. When I go to bed I take off my shoes and leggings, put on an extra pair of socks, and crawl into the bag which each afternoon I make up afresh by pinning the folded blankets together with the biggest safety pins you ever saw, and buttoning my poncho around them. Over me thus there is the poncho, and as many layers of blankets as I please, up to five. Besides I have two sweaters, if I need them. So I sleep snug.

This morning it is pleasant and windless, as I wait for the order to start.

An instance of the change of orders under which we labor. (As I recall the Civil War memoirs that I have read, it seems to me that conditions are much the same.) We were assembled in line at 5.25, reported, stacked arms, and were ordered (remember that we are to camp on this same ground tonight) "Strike tents and make packs. Make up blanket rolls and squad bags, and bring them to the head of the street." Oh, the disgust! The orders were proper for the first battalion, which marches on to Altona today; but for us it seemed needless. But the promptest fell to work, took down their tents, and began to make up the packs. Then the word came travelling down the street, "Leave tents standing!" Luckily Bann and I had not got to the work of striking the tent, and so we jubilated while some others cussed. But we went on with making up the rolls and bags. Then the order was transmitted, "Leave blankets and extra kits in tents!" Perhaps someone blundered in the first place, and we got the order intended for the first battalion. And I do not complain, for today we travel light, with many things not in our packs.

The call has come, "Squad leaders to the head of the street." That means a talk preparatory to setting out. So I have put on my pack, so as to wait without worry. Having marched very dry yesterday, and a pebble which I hastily scooped up proving large and rough, I have provided myself (per one buzzard) with a package of chewing gum. Oh for the old-fashioned spruce, with no sweetness or artificial flavor!—The first battalion, having packed entirely, is assembling for the march. My map is buttoned in my shirt, for consultation at halts. The day is warm, with the wind from the west; but there are gathering clouds, and I am going to use the time which is left in digging with my bayonet a ditch around the tent.

(In West Sciota? At any rate, an inhabited crossroads.) I am lying on my back in the wet grass, while the captain explains that the sound at a little distance, as of a lot of carpenters nailing at the boarding of a new house, is our patrols firing at a party of cavalry that is opposing our advance.

We left our tents buttoned, and started out in gray weather. I was glad that I had, with bayonet and fingers, dug a shallow ditch along the upper side of our pup and across the front, when this light rain began. It is not bad, and so long as I have my pack between me and the ground I cannot get chilled. Again and again I have used it so, and have seen fellows at halts napping all around me. Truly the pack is a life saver.—"Fall in!"

(North of Sciota, on the road to Mooers, near crossroads 79, the weather now dry.) We are resting after a skirmish, and as my position is somewhat more comfortable, since I am lolling in a ditch instead of lying on my back, perhaps these jottings will be more legible than the last. The skirmish went thus.

We left our resting-place at crossroads 72, and followed the popping of our advance guard, I company, while at the same time we heard at a greater distance the heavy firing of the first battalion as it fought its way westward toward Altona, we ourselves going north. As we advanced beyond a corner, suddenly fire from the left broke out upon the column behind us. At once we were halted, and Captain Kirby, ranging down the line of the company, picked out our squad and sent us at the double over the fence and into the field north of the road that we had passed, our enemy being in a thick wood to the south of it. Here we streamed along, poor Corder as usual soon being pumped and dropping behind, while eager David was only kept from outdistancing the rest by a sharp word from Knudsen. We scrambled through a wire fence, then in a pasture with scattered heavy cedars we assembled behind a tree to survey the ground, all of us pouring out our advice upon poor Bann—to go to the road, to go further west, to plunge into the woods and attack the enemy by ourselves. This last from David, who is keen at every fight. Someone urging to send a message back to the captain, Bann got out the brand-new despatch book and pencil which since the conference this morning had been sticking out of his pocket, but put them up again for lack of something definite to say. So he took us across the road and into the field behind the enemy's wood, where it being evident that the foe had no reserves, Bann began once more to write.

Now we heard Kirby's voice, who having led the company along the road, and finding himself plainly behind the enemy's fire, was putting the men, in squad columns, into the wood to search them out. We climbed the wire fence and followed through the densest undergrowth, where poor Corder, stumbling behind and having to protect his glasses, often found himself quite out of sight of the man in front. But we were too late. We heard shouts ahead, the firing ceased, and when we desperately broke through the last of the thicket and found ourselves in the open, there stood a line of men with white bands on their hats (the sign of the opposing forces) quietly regarding us. Rumor said that they were captured, and Squad 9, being first on the ground, was feeling proud of their work. Then the rumor ran that not only was the enemy not captured, but we were killed. Squad 9 was cursing, "not loud but deep," when the captain came along and was passionately appealed to. "We got them," he assured us. "They were firing away from us when we broke through the wood. A single picket on that flank, firing a single shot on seeing us, would have saved them. And besides, we have their horses. Sergeant Barker has just come in reporting that he has the bunch." Satisfied, we marched out to our present resting-place.

The cavalry has just emerged from their unsuccessful ambush, with the two machine guns, and have started northward in a hurry, an umpire warning them, "You have only five minutes before we start after you." The men around me are laughing and talking, well content, and I have just seen the major congratulating the captain on a brisk piece of work.

(In camp again, and settled for the night at our old tents, the weather having cleared.)