What I Know

A Subaltern

JAM a lieutenant
More explicitly I am
a second lieutenant,
and by way of fur-
ther explanation I
might go so far as to
say that I have been
in the Army but a
few short months.
There are a few
things I do know and

many that I don't.

I don't know what it is like to lead troops in battle.

I don't feel quite sure, as a doughboy officer (and of a line company at that), that I could turn out an outfit of experts in the automatic rifle, the hand grenade, the rifle grenade, or even a rifle YET.

My knowledge of paper-work is nothing to brag about.

These are but a few scattered examples of what I don't know. The thought that my company commander might read this confession of mine prevents a further display of frankness. He may give me more to do than I already have at the present time-and I have plenty, considering my rank.

And as this is my own epitaph it behooves me to help myself and express my stronger points and leave my weaker ones back somewhere in a secluded spot of my own consciousness of my ability and my lack of it. There are some few things I do know, however, and I'd rather air them, for mine is a sensitive nature and I prefer that my lacks remain unsung.

I know that a soldier is a man and

wants to be treated as such. That his desires are human and his wants the same, in a measure, as mine.

I know he lacks the home influence and that this element must be combated; that his recreation rooms, for one example, should be built up and my duty to him as a fellow soldier remains unfulfilled as long as I show a lack of initiative in improving his wellbeing, and a lack of interest in his welfare and in his comfort.

I know, knowing that he is human, that his interest in his work, in our work, can be heightened or lessened in a direct ratio with my own interest. If the fulfillment of my duties on the parade ground when at drill with my platoon is effected haphazardly, I know what results to expect. And I know that I am at fault. And if I give a lecture on musketry and retain their attention throughout, I know that I am doing my part and my mind is at rest. If I cannot do it, my conscience, an inconveniently strong one, denies me placidity of mind and I am at fault. If my company has a basketball team and I know it and that is all, I know wherein lies the fault of my outfit's general indifference. If I show an active interest, and devote my spare time to its development my company's spirit is satisfying and pleasing to beFold.

I know other things, some of which I am not quite sure of YET, but I mention these varied points of my education because they are those of which my opinions are set and fast, and I know the principles to be correct ones.

The Infantry School Football Team This team holds the Southern Interstate Championship and is perhaps the strongest team the Infantry could place in the field.

Bottom row, sitting, left to right-Daniels, Zellars, Coates, Sharpe, Ware, Kinman, Lynch, Coghlan, Hutchinson. Middle row, sitting, left to right-Cornell, Howard, Backman, MacNab, Chapman (Captain), Rogers, Henry, Smith, Parker, Ritter, Ellis. Top row, standing, left to right Leman (Manager), Milburn (Head Coach), Yon, Bartow, Gayle, Gessford, Adams, Peckinpaugh, Crist, Shoe, Goodyear, Liston, Lehman, Davis,

Seven Hundred Miles

HIS is the story of the march of the overland transportation detachment of the Thirty-Fourth Infantry. Starting from Madison Barracks, New York, on September 7, this detachment marched across four States, passed through many cities, trekked its way among innumerable valleys of wonderful beauty, crossed the famous Blue Ridge and the Appalachians, and then came down over the rolling country of Maryland and Virginia to Camp Eustis, on the James River, where we arrived on October 5-700 miles in 28 days! Surely a feat to be proud of!

THE MARCH

The barracks were deserted two days before, when all of the foot troops departed by rail for New York, there to take the transport for Norfolk and Camp Eustis.

The last twenty-four hours were filled with the worries of a last look at everything, including a last "think." Loads were gone over; equipment looked after; animals and wagons given the finishing touches; a final farewell to the friends and country of the North.

The line of march had been decided on. All knew that once started the way led always south, as far, indeed,

as that State so celebrated in song-a tune which all quartettes strive ever to attain proficiency in rendering. Dear

old Virginia! and its wonderful hamıs and yams, its ruined fortunes and "lost causes"-where, even yet, "Before the War" means '61.

It was not so hard, then, to pull out from under the edge of the Northern Lights-brilliant and flaming rays the memories of which seemed, somehow, to call to us across the skies every evening of the long march. Their call was to the northland, but we knew that our trail led southward, and always south through all the days that

were to come.

So it was, then, that the dawning of the last day there saw the long column wind slowly out of the barracks and along the fine concrete and macadam roads of New York. The country was beautiful; camp sites excellent. Early on the road was the watchword.

Across into Pennsylvania the wagons and horses moved. Here began the most enjoyable part of the entire trip. Early fall had already given the hill country its million autumnal hues. A riot of color stretched on every side as far as one could see. The roads wound in and out, up and down over the tree-clad hills.

The Susquehanna Trail-only those who have followed that wonderful val

ley can appreciate its beauty: the steep, green hills straight up and down; the winding road; the quietly flowing stream; the thousand barges passing down with their precious cargoes of coal; the miles and miles of colored forests.

Once the road topped a hill and straight below-perpendicularly

gleamed that beautiful lake of Eagles Mere-hid like a pearl there, surrounded on all sides, even to the water's edge, by those wonderful, colored hills of early autumn. Who could forget, ever, such a sight! Even the miles yet to go could scarcely rob us of the pleasure and contentment of those few moments.

We could not linger though. There were those, far to the south, who awaited us; who needed us. We would

tell them of it later.

Day by day the miles passed behind. States were left to the rear; streams were crossed; villages passed. Rain came but once; no one cared much. The moon seemed always just over the hill. Ever the restlessness of the camp at night: the swishing and switching of animals; their munching, and the tug of strap and rope and chain; dogs barking in the distance; the murmur of voices not yet stilled in the sleep of a hard day's march.

All was there, truly-the all that makes those of us who love the Army desire to stay; the call that brings men back again, to fight, perhaps to die, if necessary. This was our life and we loved it, even though we knew that tomorrow and the next day and the day after, also, would see us out on the road again, weary in backs and legs from the eternal walk, walk, walk of the plodding column.

Maryland, also, was finally passed, and then came that great day when we crossed the Virginia line. No more need we sing "Carry Me Back." We were there! And yet-well, as Shakespeare says, "What's in a name?" The Germans still celebrate in song and word that great, towering, bare-faced

rock of the Lorelei. Why not Virginia? Especially when we consider its history.

We did know, however, that we were in a wonderful place. Almost nightly "the" war was refought and invariably we newcomers lost. Perhaps "local color" and the fact that it was the home team's favorite stamping grounds, caused this complete reversal of history. We didn't mind it, though, for already the evenings spent in those Virginian camp sites had shown to us the significance and the real truth of of that famous phrase "Southern Hospitality." We knew, indeed, by the time we arrived at Camp Eustis that it was a something for the deepest appreciation.

INCIDENTS ON THE WAY

There were incidents on the way, of course-hundreds of them; most of them were pleasant or funny. There was only one serious mishap,-or rather, that might have proved serious. It occurred when the mules drawing the ambulance shied at a passing automobile. The road was narrow and the four-line team and the ambulance, with five men and a driver, all toppled over a ten-foot embankment. Everything became entangled in trees and bush. The mules were quickly unhitched and gotten back on the road, with only a few scratches to show. The ambulance was then pulled back by means of ropes, with both men and animals pulling. None of the occupants were injured. It was a narrow and lucky es

cape.

Camp was pitched one night on the Onandago Indian Reservation. Here was witnessed a game of Lacrosse between the Royal Reds of Canada and

the Onandago Indian team. It was a wonderful game, played as only Indians can play it. That night the Chief of the Onandago told the officers of a legend in which the most beautiful part of their old, ancestral home a tract one-half mile squarehad been given to a certain white man for some special service this man had rendered to the Indians. This gift was later parceled out among various other white men, whose homes adorn this tract today.

At Sayre, New York, a police officer brought in a deserter. He wanted $50 then and there. Of course, the commanding officer of the troops couldn't give it to him. He told the police officer to turn the prisoner over and to write a letter for the money. But this made the police officer indignant. He claimed he had arrested a great many men during the war and hadn't received a cent, and he wouldn't turn this one over without getting paid. So he was then told he had better keep the deserter; which he did.

At Towanda, after a baseball game in the afternoon, which the detachment. team won, the men attended a typical old-fashioned country barn dance. They said it was "cider" they were serving. Well, it was free, and soldiers try everything once. Practically every one returned in time to make the next day's march at 5:00 A. M!

At Loyal Sock Creek, Pa., there was "much ado" and it wasn't about "nothing," either! The animals decided to mutiny! They were in a small, inclosed paddock, peacefully grazing, when a few of them fancied a small jaunt around the nearby hills would be fine. The rest followed. They were all soon rounded up, but it

was no sooner done than some way or other they started out again. This time it was a regular stampede. They ran practically half way back to the camp site of the night before. On the way they had to pass through the wagon train coming up. The drivers of the wagons, in order to stop the rush, turned their wagons across the road, but to no avail; the horses went everywhere-in, around, under-there was no stopping them. Finally a couple of the riders giving chase got in among the leaders and gradually quieted them down. All were brought back without any harm.

Passing through Washington, a colored-boys-band played some snappy music while the mules were going by. Good step was maintained by all (including the band).

At Fredericksburg, at the County Fair, the men put on two races as part of the afternoon's card at the track. The first was a half-mile horse race. The other was a mule steeple-chase over four jumps, 312 feet high. Seven mules were entered. At the lifting of the barrier all started beautifully at full gallop. This speed was maintained until they reached the first hurdle, when ail stopped-dead still! Finally one rider got his mule over; the rest followed. Two of the mules went over the second hurdle. None got over the last two. Three mules finished by doing some fancy stepping around the ends of the hurdles. No one hurt; much applause; five dollars awarded for each place; prizes received immediately; tie race by the winners running for payment!

Near Ashland, Va., where a Sunday halt was made, a certain gentleman