History of the 305th Field Artillery | Page 6

you do about it?"
"Ordered the fighting one to take care of the weeper."
"Say? Did he?"
"You bet. Closed both eyes so the tears couldn't get out, and satisfied
himself at the same time. I remember he shouted as he swung: 'Hay,
Boss! It's a grand war!"'
Those already in uniform, none the less, felt a quick sympathy for the
newcomers. Their individualities slipped away from them so easily! At
the station they were labelled and assigned to barracks. They were
herded and marched in long, uncouth lines, to the hospital for physical
examination. We formed squads and tried to instruct them in the school
of the soldier. Rich and poor, Hebrew and Gentile, short and long,
straw-hatted, felt -hatted, or without any hats at all, they faced us, eager,
one knew, to learn.
"One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Squad halt. Right face.
Left face. About face."
Those that couldn't speak English very well got the commands
confused. Others had a curious lack of balance. All had a disposition to
laugh at mistakes and accidents, and to discuss and argue about them
while in ranks at attention.
At morning and evening roll-call argument was warmest. No linguist

existed, sufficiently facile to scan that list intelligibly. Sprinkled among
remembered English names were pitfalls of Italian, Russian, Spanish,
Lithuanian, German, even Chinese.
"Krag-a-co-poul-o-wiez, G."
The officer, calling the roll, would look up, expecting the response his
triumph deserved. A protest would come, as likely as not in fluent
lower New York accents:
"Do yuh mean me? That ain't the way tuh say my name. Me own
mother wouldn't recernize it."
"Silence! Simply answer, 'here."'
In a tone of deep disgust:
"Then I ain't here. That's all. I ain't here."
An appreciative laugh would ripple down the ranks. Men learned to be
officers and non-commissioned officers in those days.
Afterwards the citizen soldiers would get their mess kits, and, sitting on
burned stumps or Thompson-Starret rubbish, would eat a palatable
meal. For the food was coming from somewhere, and the gear to
dispose of it.
We had noticed that Walters, Payne, and Savage were up to something.
During long hours they sat in Regimental Headquarters studying
documents. Then they filled out many forms, and sample clothing and
equipment straggled into the barracks. This meant a new phase, and
now, as we labelled, we equipped. We became tailors, hatters, booters.
We would begin the night's work by choosing as comfortable a place as
possible in the mess hall with a pile of pink qualification cards before
us. The queue of awkward and pallid youths would form.
"Name? "
It would flow out in various accents. More frequently than not it would

demand painstaking spelling.
Education, occupation, average wages, capacity for leadership, ability
to entertain, previous military experience -it all went down. There was
one question in which we took a special interest.
"For what branch of the service do you wish to express a preference? "
Some had weighed the matter carefully. They believed themselves born
to the Quartermaster's Corps, but the majority had not foreseen that
interrogation, nor, if they had, it is likely that the meat of their answer
would have had a different texture. Its sincerity was sometimes naive.
"Oh, hell! I don't care, just so I lick the Choimans."
We concentrated on the finest. Shamelessly we prosely-tized, out of
this impromptu mission came some of the regiment's best.
Those hours of dreary, yawning statistics, moreover, had their relieving
moments. Here comes a slender young man in the familiar suit of
remote beginnings. The officer asks him formally the formal question.
"Wages in your last job?"
"$50,000 a year."
That officer, one recalls, rose to the occasion, for the young man was
not boasting.
"And I understand you wish to express a preference for the Field
Artillery?"
Wasn't it Hoadley who faced a youth just the reverse of this last-that is,
flashily tailored?
"What can you furnish in the way of entertainment?"
"Me?" the flashy young man replied. "I could steer the village miser
into a poker game, and, believe me, bo, I can make a deck of cards lay

down and roll over. What's the idea? What d'ye mean? I got to split
with you? "
When he declared for the Cooks and Bakers his choice went down
without argument.
Afterwards we would line our charges up again and desert qualification
cards for sample shoes and hats and clothing. Sizes were limited, and
we hadn't suspected before nature's infinite variety in modeling the
human form. We made an axiom at the start. The more peculiar the
shape, the more particular the owner.
"For the lova Mike, mister, I can't wear that coat. Makes me look as if
I'd broke me breast bone."
Or:
"You got to melt me to