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AT PLATTSBURG

by

ALLEN FRENCH

      *      *      *      *      *      *

BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HIDING-PLACES.. net $1.35

      *      *      *      *      *      *

AT PLATTSBURG

by

ALLEN FRENCH







New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1917

Copyright, 1917, by
Charles Scribner's Sons

Published April, 1917



TO
SQUAD EIGHT

MY BOOK THE SQUAD ISN'T AS IT REALLY WAS.
SOME OF YOU ARE NOT THERE, AND THE REST
ARE ALTERED. BUT WHILE, ON ACCOUNT OF THE
STORY THAT I NEEDED AND THE FACTS I WANTED
TO DISPLAY, I COULD NOT DRAW YOUR PORTRAITS,
I HOPE I HAVE SUCCEEDED IN SHOWING THAT
THING IN PLATTSBURG WHICH MEANT MOST TO
ME PERSONALLY, THE SPIRIT OF OUR SQUAD



PREFACE

To describe military scenes is always to rouse the keenest scrutiny from
military men. I write this foreword not to deprecate criticism, but to
remind the professional reader that, while the scenes I have described
are all from experience, the aim in writing them was not for technical
exactness, often confusing to the lay reader, but rather for the purpose
of giving a general picture of the fun and work at a training camp.

Nowadays we are making history so fast that readers may have to be
reminded that last summer occurred the mobilization on the Mexican border
of most of the regular army and many regiments of the National Guard, a
fact which considerably affected conditions at Plattsburg.

The "Buzzard Song," which my company used with such satisfaction on the
hike, was written by a camp-mate, John A. Straley, who has kindly allowed
me to use it, with a few minor changes.

                                                           Allen French.

Concord, Massachusetts,
  April 3, 1917.






AT PLATTSBURG




RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER


                                   On the train, nearing Plattsburg.
                                           Friday morning, Sep. 8, 1916.

DEAR MOTHER:--

Though you kissed me good-by with affection, you know there was amusement
in the little smile with which you watched me go. I, a modest citizen,
accustomed to shrink from publicity, was exposed in broad day in a badly
fitting uniform, in color inconspicuous, to be sure, but in pattern
evidently military and aggressive. What a guy I felt myself, and how
every smile or laugh upon the street seemed to mean Me! The way to the
railroad station had never seemed so long, nor so thronged with curious
folk. I felt myself very silly.

Thus it was a relief when I met our good pastor, for I knew at the first
glance of his eye that my errand and my uniform meant to him, as they did
to me, something important. So strong was this comforting sense that I
even forgot what importance he might attach to them.

But fixing me with his eye as I stopped and greeted him (being within
easy hurrying distance of the station) he said in pained surprise: "And
so you are going to Plattsburg?"

Then I remembered that he was an irreconcilable pacifist. Needing no
answer, he went on: "I am sorry to see that the militarist spirit has
seized you too."

Now if anything vexes me, it is to be told that I am a militarist. "Not
that, sir," said I. "War is the last thing that I want."

"Train a man to wield a weapon," he rejoined, "and he will itch to use
it." I think we were both a little sententious because of the approach of
the train. "Your argument is, I suppose, that the country is in danger?"

"Exactly," I replied.

He raised both hands. "Madness! No one will attack us."

I refrained from telling him that with so much at stake I was unwilling
to accept even treaty assurances on that point. He went on. "The whole
world is mad with desire to slay. But I would rather have my son killed
than killing others."

He is proud of his son, but he is prouder of his daughter. Said I, "If
war comes, and we are unprepared for it, you might have not only your son
killed, but your daughter too."

Horrified, he had not yet begun to express himself on the impossibility
of invasion, when the train came. So we parted. To tell the truth, I am
not sorry that he feels so: it is very ideal. And I regret no longer
having my own fine feeling of security. It is only a year or so ago that
I was just such a pacifist as he.

If I in my new uniform was at home a curiosity, when I reached Boston I
found myself merely one among many, for the North Station was full of
Plattsburgers. There is great comfort in being like other folk. A thick
crowd it was at our special train, raw recruits with their admiring
women-folk or fun-poking friends. The departure was not like the leaving
of soldiers for the front, such as we saw in July when the boys went to
Texas. We should come back not with wounds, but with a healthy tan and
much useful experience. So every one was jolly, except for a young couple
that were walking up and down in silent communion, and sometimes
furtively touching hands--a young married pair, I thought, before their
first separation.

We were off without much delay, a train-load wholly of men, and all
greenhorns. For all of us had nice fresh crinkly blouses, and olive-drab
(properly o. d.) knees not yet worn white (as I have seen on returning
Plattsburgers) while our canvas leggings were still unshaped to our manly
calves. Our hats were new and stiff, and their gaudy cords were bright.
And we were inquisitive of the life that was ahead of us, readily making
acquaintance in order to compare our scraps of information. Dismay ran
here and there with the knowledge that the typhoid inoculation required
three weekly doses. Thank goodness, that is over with for me. We tried to
be very soldierly in bearing, evidently an effort in other cases than
mine. One fellow had his own gun along; he wanted, he said, to make a
good score on the range. So I had my first chance to handle an army
rifle.

You know that when I left, you had been worrying as to how I should stand
the strain of the coming month's work. I will admit that I have been
wondering about it myself. I have worked very hard for the last few
years, practically without vacation, in order to marry as suited Vera's
ideas. And then, two years after she had said Yes, and when my earnings
ought to satisfy any woman, began the complex strain of the breaking of
the engagement--the heart burnings, the self-searching, the difficult
coming to an understanding. And now that she and I have parted friends,
with both of us quite satisfied, I have been realizing how much run down
I am, so that it has seemed quite possible that Plattsburg life might be
too strenuous for me. But a good look at my companions has made it clear
that I can stand up with the average of them. A fair number of them, to
be sure, are brown and seasoned by the summer. But quite as many are pale
and stooped from desk work, or pasty from good living. If I fall out, I
shall have plenty of company.

I write this letter while the train is approaching Plattsburg. When I
woke this morning we were at a standstill in some railway yard, and
beside us was standing another train, labelled like ours, doubtless
carrying the New York men. It drew out ahead of us, and I suppose its
inmates are now debarked, and gawking about them as presently my
companions and I shall gawk. Tonight I shall write again. Affectionately

                                                                   DICK.




DAVID RIDGWAY FARNHAM, 3D, TO HIS MOTHER


                                     On the Train to Plattsburg.
                                              Friday morning, Sept. 8th.

DEAR MAMA:--

It is unlucky that both of our cars were out of order just when I was
starting for Plattsburg. For the train has been very hot and stufy, and
so crowded. I tried once more to get myself a statroom, but when the
agent said I should have to be with three other men, then I just gave up,
and got the porter to make up my upper birth early, and climbed into it
though I wasn't sleepy at all. But it was something to get by myself and
be a little privat.

I spoke to a few of the fellows, but I couldn't make much out of them.
One had never been to college, and another knew nothing of automobiles,
and another began talking about the drill regulations, but you know I
never even bought the book. The whole train was one big smoking car, and
some fellows near me were very noisy over a game of poker.

I suppose I shall mannage to get along with these fellows, because I know
I must if I want what father promised me, and if the fellows at the
Casino aren't to laugh at me. But so far as I can see, everyone on the
train isn't at all my kind. Father doesn't understand how I feel about
fellows who are not in our set. I don't look down on them, you know, for
I'm sure most of them are very nice fellows of their sort. But I never
knew anyone of their kind before, and what am I to talk to them about?
Its all very well for father to say that I can get something worth while
from every man I meet; but he's a business man, and so he's used to them.

You mustn't think I'm unhappy if I say I shall miss you and shall hate to
be confined by the camp regulations. I'm not going to back out for father
and cousin Walt have put it up to me to see the thing through and though
I'm kind of used to disapointing father I don't intend that Walt shall
think I'm sandless.

But when the camp breaks up you must be sure to be here, with the
Rolls-Royce, to take me home. I don't think I could stand another trip
like this. Love from,

                                                                  DAVID.




PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER


                                                Plattsburg Camp.
                                                Friday evening, Sept. 8.

DEAR MOTHER:--

I had scarcely finished my letter of this morning when the train began to
slow down, and then drew up alongside a wide and gently sloping field,
while on the other side was the lake. With our luggage we poured out into
the field, evidently our training ground, since beyond it were tented
streets, with some big open-sided buildings that doubtless had some
military use, since we saw rookies going in and out. In haste to get our
share of what was to be had, we consulted the printed slips handed to us
in the train.

"On arriving at camp: First, Carry your hand baggage to the Y. M. C. A."

Where was the Y. M. C. A.? There was no building standing near of even
so much as two stories. There were tents and there were shacks, but even
when we came to a street busy with electrics, automobiles, motor trucks,
and foot passers, nothing of any size was to be seen. But as I followed
along with the rest, noting that almost everybody we met, from the riders
in the autos to the drivers of the trucks, was military, I saw a skeleton
structure, tar-paper-roofed, and bearing the magic letters for which we
were looking. There regulars--artillerymen with red-corded hats--received
our bags through the open frontage and stored them alphabetically.

"Second. Go to the mess-shacks for breakfast."

We went. We breakfasted. The mess shacks were those other open-sided
buildings on the drill-field which I had already seen; their
construction, being merely tarred roofs on posts and walled with mosquito
netting, promised no elegance of fare. Nor was the fare elegant: milk,
coffee, cereal, hard boiled eggs, bread, butter, a bruised apple. The
milk was of two kinds, real and canned. Used in the coffee, or with sugar
on the cereal, the canned milk was good enough as poured from a hole
punched in the container; but a wise man near me prophesied that I should
not like to drink it when diluted. Flat, he said. Tasted like chalk.
Doubtless it was chemically correct, but (you see how scientific he was)
the metabolism of the body despises chemical synthesis, and for real
nourishment the palate must be satisfied.

"Third. At once after breakfast go to the Adjutant's Office and enroll."

So we stood in line, and when on nearing the window of the office I heard
the Adjutant say to a predecessor, "Where's your thirty dollars?" I got
out my greenbacks and presently paid them in, twenty-five for our
maintenance at camp, five to be returned if during our stay we had not
damaged any of Uncle Sam's property. And since the adjutant assigned me
to a company, I began to feel that I was getting somewhere.

"Fourth. Exchange your baggage checks for camp claim checks."

None of that for me. I had known enough to bring but a large suit-case,
leaving behind everything that I could persuade myself was unnecessary.
There was a memorandum on the printed slip to the effect that trunks and
other large pieces of baggage would be stored at the post barracks, where
owners could visit them on Sunday mornings. A sad weekly ceremony for one
who had to choose from an excess of luxuries!

"Fifth. Report to the officer commanding your Company."

I did not find him. Though again I stood in line, this time with men with
whom I was to associate, those to whom I reported in the Orderly Tent at
the head of H company street were but sergeants and volunteers like
myself, though men of more experience, as I could tell by their weathered
uniforms and faded hat-cords. They filled out a card concerning me, led
me to the tent pole, and measuring my height with a crude but effective
instrument, announced "Tent Eight."

"Sixth. Bring your hand baggage to your tent."

So I brought it from the Y. M. C. A. Now the topography of the camp is
thus. Just within the enclosure, and parallel with the street outside,
runs the officers' street, their tents along one side of it, each with
its little sign bearing the occupant's name. From the other side, toward
the drill ground and the lake, lead away the company streets with double
rows of khaki tents facing each other. All were on a thin and barren
soil, where between the tents some few weeds straggled, while everywhere
else men's feet had killed all growth. No! For in front of one of the
tents, under the protection of its ropes, grew a half-dozen thrifty <DW29>
plants, all in bright bloom. But elsewhere all was brown sand that looked
as if it might blow dust in clouds, but which also, I was glad to see,
looked as if it might absorb all ordinary rains. The street, about midway
of its length, rose a little, then dropped, and straddling this ridge I
found Tent 8, in the best possible position should the weather turn wet.
As I entered, stooping, I peered about the shadowed interior.

The dry floor was ploughed into holes and ridges by the feet of the last
occupants. One man, bearded and grizzled, was sitting on a cot in one
corner, exploring the interior of a big blue canvas bag; a professor or
doctor person, who gave me one keen glance, briefly said "Good day," and
went on with his occupation. A second bed, already neatly set up and
equipped, stood in another corner. Its owner, lithe and keen, a fellow of
about twenty-five, was watching a third, man-sized but boy-faced, who was
struggling with a cot in its chrysalis stage, being apparently quite
unable to unfold it. I knew the lad at a glance, young David Ridgway
Farnham 3d, whose cousin Walter was in my class, to whom I was best man,
as you remember, some five years ago. Now young David has been the
laughing stock of the family, spoiled with riches and an indulgent mamma.
Walter told me that many tutors, on princely salaries, just managed to
get him through Harvard this year. And here he was at Plattsburg!
However, he couldn't know me, so I disposed my things in a corner.

The lithe and keen person seemed lither and keener at second glance. He
was of a splendid blond type, with flashing blue eyes; everything about
him was perfectly straight, his backbone, his nose, his close-cropped
fair hair, the thin-lipped mouth, the drop of his chin, and even the
precipitous fall of his high cheek-bones. He had not noticed me at all,
so intent was he on the struggles of young Farnham. A very efficient
person he seemed, and immediately proved it. For Farnham, with that
appealing helplessness which I remember in him as a charming child (you
know that with his brown eyes, curly hair, and rosy skin he's as handsome
as a girl) looked up at his watcher. He immediately said: "Bend the leg
the other way. Now the next one. Now spread the whole thing out. Now
spring those two cross-pieces into place." But even then, though the cot
had gained a recognizable shape, Farnham was still baffled. His hands
were soft, and so were his muscles. "This way," said the other after a
moment. And sitting on the cot, with his feet he forced the cross-bar at
one end into position, then swung about and put the other one into place,
and the thing was done.

"Thanks," said young David, politely but not warmly, in a way that showed
how used he is to being waited on. "Have a cigarette? I suppose we
shall--er--room together. My name is Farnham."

"Mine is Knudsen," said the other. And then I appreciated the cause of
his blondness.

"I'm from Harvard, class of'sixteen," said young David. Well-grown as he
is, I couldn't help thinking of him as young.

"I'm from Buffalo," said Knudsen shortly. "I run a foundry there." His
blue eyes were unwavering and quite expressionless as he looked Farnham
over.

"Farnham? Farnham?" said the man with the short pointed beard. The others
turned and looked at him. "I remember now. You were in my section in
English A, your Freshman year."

"Oh," said young David. "Professor Corder. Of course. How de do? I
remember that you flunked me."

"But you got through English D after two tries," said Corder. "Such is
college life."

As none followed up the subject, I asked where they got their equipment.
On their direction I went to the store-tent at the head of the street,
