Читать книгу Jed's Boy - Warren Lee Goss - Страница 7

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A few weeks later I had enlisted in the Infantry and, with other recruits, among whom was Sam Jenkins, arrived at one of the training camps.

Its size astonished me. It was a city of barracks. Broad streets designated by letters, with each barrack numbered, stretched out in endless succession, covering hundreds of acres and miles in length and breadth.

On being assigned to barracks, we drew our “property,” including uniform, blankets, sweaters, and other equipments, usually issued to a “rookie,” besides a rifle and its belongings.

I had supposed that the life of a soldier in camp was one of comparative leisure, but there is where I made a mistake—a delusion common to the uninitiated. Our duties, or work, seemed unending. There was a rule to fit every hour of the day.

Reveille calls the rookie out of bed. Then after putting on his uniform he takes a position near the line and, at the first sergeant’s command of “Fall in” takes his place and assumes the first position of a soldier—which means, heels on the same line, toes turning outward, chest out, body thrown forward, thumbs at the seams of his trousers, legs straight, but not stiff, and the weight of the body resting lightly upon the soles of his feet.

After reveille, he makes his bed, puts everything in order, then washes for breakfast, or as it is called “Mess,” after which he puts his equipments in order for drill. His rifle belts and uniform must be neat and clean as possible, or he gets a reprimand. Then comes “sick call”; then “drill call”; at which call he is expected to put everything in exact order in his quarters, then take his place in ranks for two hours’ drill.

Then comes another “Mess” call, which means fall in for dinner. After dinner there is a short rest, then comes drill call again, after which there is another short rest, during which he is expected to bathe, shave, and make himself neat, and ready for retreat—which is the dress occasion of the day. The next call is “Taps” when lights must be out.

This is, however, but simply an outline of the routine that one must follow during each day.

I, however, liked the military drill and, as Sam declared, learned it as though it was something that I was made for. But there were many petty exactions, which looked to me, as it doubtless has to every other raw soldier since the beginning, needlessly fussy; and the drill sergeant was exasperating. But there is a difference in men. Some, when invested with brief authority, have always been bullies.

But it was when I went on my first “hike” with full pack, that I thought I was killed. If there has ever been an invention, since the beginning of soldiering, that has made a soldier boy regret his wealth of possessions, it is this first regular “hike.”

It was a beautiful day in July when I fell into line with others, some seasoned vessels of war—but mostly not. I had admired the pack while I was learning the minutiæ of making one, for it certainly is a wonderful invention, and the first half mile I kept up a martial air, with my sweat-provoking and back-aching pack galling me. Then I began to want a rest—and didn’t get it! The sweat ran down my face and saturated me with a sticky moisture. I fully agreed with Sam when he said, in undertone, “Isn’t it a grunter?” I certainly never knew the sweetest word in English until, at last, came the order, “Halt!” When I got through that “practice march,” I recognized that carrying a nine-pound rifle on my shoulder, and a heavy pack—however admirable the invention—was not amusing.

It was, however, not many weeks before my sturdy farmer-boy shoulders became more accustomed to the pack. Poor Sam, however, who was short and fat, for a long time persisted in his first opinion, that it was a “grunter”! He said he had heard Civil War soldiers tell of throwing away their blankets and overcoats on a march and now understood the reason of it!

Some weeks later, when I had learned the drill, and had even been complimented by a non-commissioned superior who declared that I took to soldiering “like a duck to water,” I thought there might be something in inherited qualities.

One thing, common to all new soldiers, was that I suddenly found myself unexpectedly fond of home, and couldn’t hear from the folks often enough. Home never seemed to my mind quite so lovely, as now that I was away from it. I was, as may be inferred, not a little homesick.

I have forgotten to say, in its proper place, that Muddy had accompanied me from home to camp, and was hailed by my comrades as a companion worthy of the khaki with which nature had clothed him. He was soon adopted as the Company Mascot; and to a homesick boy his companionship cannot be over-estimated.

On coming to the Cantonment I had endeavored, from the first, to find Jot; but not a thing could I learn about him. To find any one in this big city was, as Sam said, “like looking for a collar button in a pasture.” It was more difficult to find a person in this great city of barracks perhaps, than in an ordinary city, because of the uniformity of its buildings and the sameness of its uniforms.

One day I had left Muddy in charge of the mess sergeant and had gone to the Y. M. C. A. to write to Uncle Jim and Aunt Joe, when the door opened, and Muddy, like a whirlwind of hair and tail, came yelping and jumping upon me.

I looked up to scold him, for dogs were not allowed there, when “Jot” stood smiling down upon me. He threw his arms around me with a big hug, and slap on the back, which I returned with interest, notwithstanding my cool New England habit of reserve.

During all this time, Muddy had been yelping and wagging both body and tail with doggish delight and approval, at having brought his friends together, until the superintendent reminded us of the rules.

Then I inquired of Jot, “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t find you,” he replied, “it was Muddy.”

“Yes; but how did you find my barracks and company?”

“It was Muddy, I tell you;” he said. “I was on my way to the quartermaster’s office, when I heard a yelping and he flew like a mad dog out of one of the barracks; and yelped and whined and dragging me by my trouser leg as much as to say, ‘Come this way!’ And I understood enough of his dog talk to know that you were somewhere around here. So I followed him.”

It was not until we were on the way to the quartermaster’s that I noticed, that he wore the chevrons of a “Top Sergeant” (first sergeant) and learned that his quarters were only a short distance from mine.

How it was that Muddy knew that Jot was in the street is one of the mysteries of the dog intellect—or instinct;—for the incident is true.

Afterwards, I told Jot of the sale of Jack to Colonel Walker, and that I believed he was in the same encampment. But Jot said he had learned that he was in one of the more Southern camps—perhaps Camp Green, in North Carolina.

“Why was it,” I queried, “that you did not tell Uncle Jim or me where you were going?”

To this he replied, “Though your uncle did not tell me not to let you know that I was going to enlist, he intimated very plainly that he did not want you to know. He said, ‘If David knows where you have gone, there’ll be no living with him; and he will follow you as sure as you stand there.’” I was quite angry with uncle at first, but when Jot said, “I think he did what he thought was best,” I saw, in part, an excuse for him.

Among other things that I learned, during my soldier experience, was one, that trouble is often brewing when we feel the safest. Now it was about to overtake me and my dog. I was showing off Muddy’s accomplishments one day to some dog admirers, when an officer came up and inquired: “Whose dog is that?”

“He is mine!” I proudly replied, “isn’t he a dandy, Mister?”

“You must address officers by their title, he said stiffly, and salute them.”

I had been so engaged, that I had not observed before, that he was an officer. I at once stood at attention and saluted.

He glanced at me seemingly through and through and then, as though satisfied, said, returning the salute,

“About that dog—just keep him out of sight and there will be no trouble;” and then as Muddy came fawning on him, patted him and passed on.

“That,” said one of the men, “is a West Pointer. He is as full of rules and orders as a book on tactics.”

“I guess he likes a dog, himself,” said Sergeant Bill, “or he would have ordered you to put him out of camp; for he is one of them highbrow officers that live by rule. Them West Pointers are a bundle of rules and regulations and eat blue books and general orders and such things instead of grub.”

It was shortly after the foregoing incident, that an order appeared in substance, as follows:

“After the 10th inst. all dogs, not licensed, will not be allowed in barracks, squad rooms, or mess halls.”

But as Muddy had a home license and wore a collar showing it, I was not concerned until, shortly after, there appeared the following:

“After this date, all dogs, whether licensed or not, will be turned over to the camp police.” To which some wag had added, “and thereafter will be included among the missing.” This was thought to be “rough” on those who had adopted dogs as mascots, and there were several companies that had, but as the mess sergeant said: “What can we do about it?”

I had been on guard at post one, in front of the commandant’s office, and in my distress, at the thought of losing my dog, determined on the hazardous expedient of interviewing the commandant, to get permission to keep Muddy.

So, brushing up my uniform and looking my neatest, I went to the office of that dread personage.

I passed the guard, got into the office, and when the commandant had turned from his desk where he was engaged in writing, I stood at attention and saluted. Then I saw that it was the same officer I have before mentioned as being a West Point man, but whom I did not know was the commandant.

“State your errand briefly,” he said coldly.

I was nervously stating my errand when in rushed Muddy, as though to argue his own case. I picked him up for fear of what further damage he might do, and as a matter of habit with me, held in my arms.

“What is your name?” he inquired in a tone of severity that boded ill for my request.

I told him, and, in answer to other questions following, said my father was an officer during the Civil War in a Massachusetts regiment. I saw his face change from severity to interest, as he said pleasantly,

“Was your father Captain Stark of the —th Massachusetts?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Did you know him there?”

“I am afraid not,” he replied, smiling for the first time; “but my father did,” and added, “They were friends.” After a pause he added, “I must grant this request to the son of my father’s friend.”

I do not know whether this incident had anything to do with a promotion which I soon after received as corporal; but I am sure it did not hinder it. And I was prouder of that promotion than any that I ever received—unless a decoration received long after from the French can be called one.

I found, however, that the duties of even this small office carried with it not a little responsibility.

Possibly I magnify the office when I say that to be a good corporal, in charge of new men, required some rare qualities. He should be icy calm, have dignity like a judge and eyes like a gimlet, and good humor in profusion; or he won’t get much work out of his men. I was on a detail shortly after my promotion, hauling provisions for the Regimental Ware House, and I couldn’t turn my head without losing a man.

When I told Jot about it he smiled and replied: “You did well not to send men after those you lost, or you would have lost more men.” And I knew by that remark, that he had once been a corporal.