It is fast getting home to me now that in spite of the heterogeneous conglomeration, of races and creeds and languages, the National Army is going to be the real thing as a fighting force after all. Every one is keen for the thing now that the first violent attacks of homesickness have worn off and they are going at their work of becoming soldiers with a will, except, of course, for a few: the conscientious objectors; and their life is no merry one. They are mighty unpopular, as numerous black eyes attest. Every one takes the slightest opportunity to emphasize their displeasure at the stand these men have taken. And some of them are going around here under a cloud. For instance, the one in the Machine Gun outfit who drills in pumps and summer suit but who has the pleasure of knowing that after his soldiering is all over with, he has three years to spend in Atlanta or some other Federal jail for little things he has done and views he has expressed.

We have one of the breed in our company, a Jew; and he’s the most unpopular man in the outfit, even among those of his own race. All of this variety, (the “objectors” I mean), who have come to my notice, are sorry specimens of manhood for the most part and I can’t blame an able-bodied chap for despising them.

The foreign element is taking hold like real Americans. It is interesting to get their slant on the whole affair. Many of them didn’t want to come. They had their own ideas of army life, suggested, doubtless, by tales they have heard of service in the European armies of former days. But when they were called they came; and behold, when they arrived and lived through the first days, they were surprised to find that they still were treated like human beings, had certain indisputable rights, were fed well and cared for properly and worked under officers who took a genuine interest in their welfare. This was something most unexpected. Right off they decided that they were going to get all they could out of this new life and give in return faithful and honest service.

“It’s fine, I like it,” assured a little Italian friend of mine in the infantry. “I like it because it help make me spick good English, make-a me strong, make-a me beeg an’ best-a what is, make-a me good American, jus like-a de boss Lieuten’.”

And in that last sentence, I believe, lies the charm of it all to most of the foreigners. They have learned that America and things American are fine and clean and good and their ambition now is to become a real American “jus like-a de boss Lieuten’.” And when they get to be real Americans, they are going to be proud of the fact and they are going to fight to prove it; that’s certain.

The camp is still soggy to-day and we have drilled ankle deep in mud. My feet have been wet from the time I stepped out of the barracks until an hour ago, when I changed my socks and put on my dress shoes. But shucks, what appetites we brought back with us from the parade grounds. I never did care for fish, but I’ll be hanged if I didn’t eat three helpings of the creamed salmon and spaghetti to-night.

A new wrinkle has developed here. We find out what the fellows are going to have for supper in nearby barracks and if the feed promises to be better than what we are to have several of us take our mess tins and go over and stand in line there. The Mess Sergeant never knows the difference.