Several things of importance happened to-day. For one thing we got some clothes. I say some clothes advisedly, for I’m not all clothed yet, being minus such important articles as an undershirt, socks and shoes. But those I brought from home, though sanctified and made holey by arduous labours in other fields, will do for the present. I possess a pair of winter breeches and a summer coat, but what matters that. It is sufficient to know that they fit, which is not the case in several instances, notably in that of friends Fat and Shrimp, who, I have learned, were not optimistic from the first about being fitted properly. It seems that from years of experience they have both learned never to expect to be fitted anywhere, anyhow. Fat’s shirt covers him with an effort, but that is all. He can’t find a shoehorn with which to get into his breeches. As for Shrimp: his belt is pulled tight about his chest and the sleeves of his tunic are rolled up to where his elbows should be, only to disclose the tips of his fingers.

But I must confess to a grave error right here. It startled me this evening at retreat. Indeed, several things startled me this evening at retreat, including my fast developing case of hives.

A few days ago I made some rather boorish and very sarcastic remarks about the possibilities of ever making soldiers out of the men I found myself among. I humbly take it all back and eat mud by way of apology. Khaki, a campaign hat and a shave, together with a certain amount of training in how to stand up straight and step off correctly, have made a vast difference. Why, hang it, I’m mighty proud to belong to this company. Jews, Italians, Poles, etc., all look like fighters; act like fighters; and a lot of them are fighters, too. Why they are soldiers already, and glad of it. Which leads me to state quite modestly the surprising fact that I think I am nearly a soldier, too, and gol-dinged set up about it. Honestly we looked fine this evening. What if there were a few misfits? A process of barter and exchange has already eliminated a great deal of that (save in the cases of Fat and Shrimp, who have gone back to civilian clothes until special uniforms are built for them) and when we lined up and snapped to attention while the band over on Tower Hill played “The Star Spangled Banner” and the old flag came slowly down, we looked like real soldiers every inch. We knew it, too, and I’ll bet there wasn’t a prouder company in the entire camp.

Of course, I had to gum up the ceremony. But I guess I’ll pay for it to-morrow. Here’s how it happened:

We’ve been drilling, drilling, drilling, all day to-day, drilling with a vengeance, and now we can do squads right and right front into line with as much pep and vigour as a company of Regulars. Our Sergeant said so, which is some admission for the old moss-back to make. Of course, we were tired. I was about ready to drop in my tracks when five o’clock came, which is time for evening parade or retreat; a very impressive ceremony by the way. My hives had been bothering me all day, and every time we were at ease, I got in some likely scratches in itchy places.

One beautiful lump developed right under my arm just at five o’clock. Holy smokes, how it did itch! It was just as if something had staked an oil claim right there and wasn’t losing any time about drilling a well. Of course, standing at attention a chap can’t scratch, at least he’s not supposed to—but I did. I tried to show extreme fortitude. I stood and stood and stood, and the darned thing kept boring and boring and boring. Then when the Lieutenants had their backs turned and stood at salute while the flag came down, I took a chance and scratched.

That First Lieutenant of ours either has eyes in the back of his head or else the Sergeant is a tattletale. Anyhow, after the ceremonies and before we were dismissed, I was commanded to step out, whereupon I was given a most beautiful call down, after which I said, “thank you, sir” to a detail as kitchen police, for the next week to come starting to-morrow.

When I got back here to my barracks the first thing I did was to peel off my shirt and look for that hive. I caught him. And then the whole terrible plot to get me detailed as kitchen policeman was revealed. “Local Board No. 163” has fleas; or, rather, he had ’em. I’ve got ’em now—no, wrong again. I got rid of them, or I hope I did.

Upon making the hideous discovery, I summoned “Local Board No. 163” in court martial proceedings. He was guilty; I could see it by the way his spirit sagged in the middle when I began to cross-question him. I picked him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap and a towel in the other, and we proceeded toward the shower baths. Bur-r-r-r but that water was cold. “Local Board No. 163” didn’t enjoy it either, but I could with justice assure him that this form of punishment hurt me as much as it did him, and what is more I am likely to suffer a heap worse to-morrow.

“Local Board No. 163,” you sleep under the bed to-night.