Conscript 2989 Part 1

Conscript 2989.

by Irving Crump.

Thursday:

Once when I was an enthusiastic freshman (it seems ages ago) I joined a Latin society that had for its inspiration the phrase, _forsan haec olim meminisse juvabit_.

All I can remember about the society is the motto, and there is nothing particularly pleasant about the recollection, either. But somehow to-night that fool phrase comes back to me and makes a pessimist of me right off. I wonder how pleasant these things are going to be and whether I will want to remember them hereafter. Perhaps I won't have much choice. I'll probably remember them whether I want to or not.

Already my first eight hours of active service as Conscript 2989 have some sharp edges sticking out which I am likely to remember, though many of them are far from pleasant.

I am now truly a member of the army of the great unwashed and unwashable-no, I take that back. They are washable. I saw a grizzly old Sergeant herding four of them out to the washroom this evening. Each of them carried a formidable square of yellow soap and a most unhappy expression. But the Sergeant looked pleased with his detail.

Never in my wildest flights of fancy can I picture some of these men as soldiers. Slavs, Poles, Italians, Greeks, a sprinkling of Chinese and j.a.ps-Jews with expressionless faces, and what not, are all about me. I'm in a barracks with 270 of them, and so far I've found a half dozen men who could speak English without an accent. Is it possible to make soldiers of these fellows? Well, if muscle and bone (princ.i.p.ally bone) is what is wanted for material, they have got it here with a vengeance.

But, then, from the looks of things they have been doing wonders and they may make creditable soldiers of them at that. Goodness knows, they may even make a soldier out of me, which would be a miracle. Here's hoping.

Friday:

I only need to glance back over the page I wrote last night to see how I felt. This conscripting must have gotten under my skin a little deeper than I thought. I'll admit I was homesick, and I guess it made me a little testy. I think I really should tear that page out and begin over.

It isn't exactly fair, and, besides, it doesn't fulfil the function of a diary, anyway, which, I take it, is a record of events and things-not a criticism of everybody in general and an opportunity to give vent to disagreeable feelings.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Never in my wildest flights of fancy can I picture some of these men as soldiers]

From a "close-up" view yesterday may have seemed like a trying day, but to-night it looks a lot different and a lot more interesting. I must confess that all the "good-byes," and the bands, and the weeping mothers and sweethearts, and the handshakes, and the pompous old turtles (who dodged the draft in the Civil War or bought subst.i.tutes) who slapped you on the back and told you how they wished they were young again, along with the arrival of the "Kaiser Kanners," who unquestionably were "kanners" of another variety, and the parade and the Home Guard and the dozen and one "Comfort Kits" that every one handed you, and the mystery of what was to come, and the scared look on every one's face, including my own, and the vacant feeling in the pit of one's stomach, superinduced by sandwiches and coffee, fudge, oranges and chocolates in lieu of a real meal, did get on my nerves.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Every one of them had a fiendish grin on his face]

But, hang it, when I look back we got a great farewell, at that. And the local Board did things up mighty well. I find myself possessed of a razor, razor strop, wrist watch, two pocket knives, unbreakable mirror, drinking cup and a lot of other things that I never expected to own or need. I haven't the remotest idea where many of them came from.

Then there was that long, almost never ending train ride, which seemed to be taking me on an unbearable distance from the place I really felt I belonged.

And the arrival; all I saw when I tumbled off the train were thousands of unpainted buildings and millions of fellows in khaki, and every one of them had a fiendish grin on his face as he shouted: "Oh, you rookey.

Wait, just wait; you'll get yours! When they bring on the needle. Oh, the needle."

I had a vague idea of what the "needle" might be, but it wasn't pleasant to hear about it from every one I met. But I guess there were a lot of fellows who were not quite certain what this threatening "needle" was.

Foolishly two of them asked one of the Sergeants who met us at the train and what they heard in reply to their queries made them paler than they were before, if that were possible. Thereafter, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, the "needle" was the subject of earnest conversation among us all, and the doubts and misgivings about that instrument of torture, coupled with a thoroughly good case of homesickness on the part of every one of us helped to make a pleasant (?) evening. And that most of us worried until far into the night is certain. I know I did, and the Italian on my left cried himself to sleep, and didn't try to hide his unhappiness either. Oh, it was a delightful evening, all things considered.

Forty-seven of us, all from my own district, came down together, and while we remained in one group there was a measure of consolation to be had for us all. But our hopes that we would stay together at camp were dashed immediately we got off the train. In fact we were so thoroughly split up that I managed to get into a squad composed entirely of foreigners, and I'm still with them. But the prospects of a change are excellent.

Quite as docile as sheep, and just as ignorant, we were marched down one camp street after another. My friends of foreign extraction, with due regard for anything that looked like a uniform, saluted every one that pa.s.sed, and they were tolerably busy until we were halted outside of our present abode, a big two-story, unpainted barracks building.

Here mess kits were served to each of us, and though we did not know the combination that unlocked the mysterious looking things, we were glad to get them, because they added so much to the dozen and one things we were already carrying. Then, completely smothering us, came two tremendous horse blankets and a comforter. Those comforters were everything their name implies. Not only did they afford warmth, but amus.e.m.e.nt as well.

They ranged in shades from baby blue and pink to cerise and lavender, and some one with a sense of humour must have distributed them. The stout, pudgy, black-haired Italian to my left reposes under the voluminous folds of a beautiful pink creation, and across the room sits a huge Irishman, with hands as big as hams and shoulders of a giant, with a baby blue comforter wrapped about him. Mine is a bewitching old rose. But, believe me, it's there with the quality if it isn't much on looks. I found that out last night.

Then, after the Sergeant showed us where we bunked and where we could expect to find something to eat about supper time, every one left us severely alone, which was mostly what we wanted, because we all had a lot on our mind between homesickness and that blessed "needle." But there was some work to do, such as stuffing mattresses with hay, sweeping out the barracks and similar occupations until bed time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A baby blue comforter wrapped about him.]

Some one, who had evidently heard some weird tales about the punishment meted out to those who overslept at camp, brought an alarm clock along with him, and the blooming thing went off at 4 A.M. Of course we got up, switched the lights on over head, and proceeded to get dressed with that resigned now-what-are-you-going-to-do-with-us air.

But dressing was interrupted by a string of the most beautiful cusses I ever heard, coming downstairs just in advance of a mighty mad looking Sergeant:

"Who in -- tarnation bow-wows has got that -- alarm clock? Pitch it out the -- window, and git back to bed."

It went and we went. But that's as far as we could go. Thoughts of the "needle" and other forms of torture which we were to face in a few short hours kept most of us awake until a quarter after five, when every officer in camp began to blow letter-carrier whistles. Then we all got up and were introduced to some physical exercises guaranteed to stretch every muscle in our makeup. I took a cold shower bath after mine, and was the object of interest of the entire barracks. Great stuff (I mean the shower).

Most of us might have been tolerably happy after that, if it hadn't been for the fact that every man in uniform made some evil suggestion about the "needle." And when they saw us all, white and corpsey looking and more or less unsteady on our legs, line up in front of the barracks and march off under our Second Lieutenant, the groans and sorry faces they feigned were enough to make one's blood run cold. And then we got the "needle."

[Ill.u.s.tration: An alarm clock went off at 4 A.M.]

I, for one, was disappointed, and so were most of the rest of us. But there were a few who didn't give themselves a chance to be disappointed.

They promptly fainted: not because of the injection but because of the state of their nerves which they all admitted afterward. There were a few things about the examination calculated to scare a man to death such as the question: "In case you are shot and killed to whom do you wish six months' pay to be sent?" Many of us stammered a bit before answering.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger]

After that we stripped, lined up and started on our way. Then measured, marked and finger-printed, we arrived before a physician who stamped a quarter section under the left shoulder blade with a sponge covered with iodine, while another one scratched the skin on our upper arm to mark the acreage to be covered by a vaccination. We moved on to two more physicians, and while one dug a hunk out of our arm and inserted vaccine in place of the skin removed, the other man, with a villainously long hypodermic, jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger. And now, by George, if any one else around here tries to kid me into worrying about anything at all, I'm going to talk back proper. They sure had me scared stiff and I'll admit it. Why, hang it, I would rather have had typhoid than face that "needle" before I really knew what it amounted to. But here I am, with germs variously estimated at from 15,000 to 250,000 circulating around inside of me, due to said "needle," and aside from a little wooziness in the head, and a sore shoulder, I'm quite contented and ready to turn in. Good-night.

Sat.u.r.day:

The serum injections of yesterday produced some queer, and in one case unfortunate, results. Last night after taps were sounded and lights were out, I lay awake a long time in spite of the fact I was very tired.

Couldn't understand it, and my arm and back were as sore as could be.

Hour after hour wore on, and I couldn't get to sleep. Some did, however, and I had a regular frog's chorus of snores to keep me company. I became a veritable specialist in snores and wheezes and grunts. Every time I heard a new variety I formed mental pictures of the men who probably made them.

Then the chorus was interrupted by some one not far from me who called out mournfully: "Oh, my back, my back! The needle!" Then in sharper tones: "Count off. 1-2-3-4." I wondered what horrors his overwrought nerves were causing him to dream of.

But when I did get to sleep I slept soundly, certainly, for they told me this morning that one chap had become seriously ill, and had been carried from the barracks to an ambulance and whisked away to the hospital sometime during the small hours of the morning. It seems that he had an excess of germs circulating around inside of him, due to the fact that he did not know enough to move on after the doctor had given him the first injection, and the physician, looking only for the nearest iodine spot, shot him twice in the same place.

However, I am reasonably certain I'll sleep to-night all right, for I've been pulling stumps all day, or rather during the time I wasn't learning to recognize my right foot from my left, and a few other things that every man thinks he knows until some one takes the pains to expose his ignorance. Oh, I have the qualities of a really capable soldier in me-if some one can find them. As an infantryman I'm a much better stump puller. I proved that this afternoon. I have a beautiful double handful of blisters, not to mention a ruined suit of clothes and hopeless shoes, to my credit in this war of exterminating the Hun. I hope we get uniforms soon, because if we don't, I'll be going about clad in my old rose comforter and some summer underclothes.

Stump pulling is rough on clothes, but it certainly is an appet.i.te builder. I've discovered already that it is good policy to be among the first on line with a mess kit, then if you can bolt your beef a-la-mode fast enough, and get outside and wash up your kit, you stand a good chance of joining the last of the line, thereby getting a second helping. Indeed, several fellows have it down to such a science already, that they get three helpings before the cook begins to say things.

The barracks is beginning to look picturesque. The atmosphere of a western mining camp, arranged for stage purposes, prevails. The Italians, swarthy-faced, heavy-featured fellows, for the most part, gather in little groups, smoke villainous pipes and play cards incessantly, whenever they are allowed much time in the barracks. Our Semitic friends linger in the vicinity of the door that leads to the mess hall and kitchen, especially about meal time. And their mess kits are always handy. Nicknames have already become common, and we have among us such worthies as Fat, Doc, Peck's Bad Boy, Toney, Binkie, Shortie, Shrimp, Simp and Pop. The last name has been applied to me, inspired, no doubt, by the suggestion of baldness aloft.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Italians gather in little groups]