I’ll need no “Melody in Snore Minor” to lull me to sleep to-night, for I am thoroughly weary. It was intimated a day or so ago that our training would be hurried a little so that we would be ready for a quick shift at any time. But hurried doesn’t exactly describe it. It looks like an early fall drive to me.

We began at the beginning, this morning, and had our squad drills all over again, and somehow in the juggling about of men to make up our company formation I managed to get last place in line, and pivot man in the front rank of the last squad.

Before to-day I’ve been in the rear rank and had a screen of front-rank men to cover up any blunders I might make, but being in the first file gave me stage fright. And, of course, with the stage fright I bungled;—forgot which was left and which was right. We began by facing, and first chance I managed to turn left when the command was right. That blunder made me more self-conscious. If I had had to talk I’m sure I would have stuttered. As it was I stammered with my feet.

Then “About Face.”

I faced about all right, only I pivoted on a stump root that some stupid had forgotten to dig out. The result was I lost my balance, and made several movements instead of one before I came to position.

At drills the Sergeants, who do most of the drilling, are equipped with sticks about a yard long so that they can poke a rear-rank man in the back without disturbing the front-rank men, and thus call attention to blunders. Being a rear-rank man on the about face, I presently felt the stick poking into my ribs and the command:

“You step out here.”

I stepped out, and was requested, along with much language, to go up in front of the company and give a demonstration in the proper method of “about facing.”

My self-consciousness fled immediately. I was mad. I wanted to talk back, and make a few remarks about the Sergeant and the stump and things. But I suddenly thought of a tour of kitchen police and restrained myself. Instead I about faced with such energy that the Sergeant knew I was boiling inside, and being a decent sort of a chap, he sent me back to the ranks after a couple of demonstrations, instead of keeping me out there for fifteen minutes as I have seen them do to some fellows.

After that I felt more at ease in the front rank. All morning long we ambled across the landscape, doing squad and company movements. It was just drill, drill, drill, for fifty out of every sixty minutes, the ten minutes being allowed as rest periods. We reviewed all our previous instructions and worked up to the point of forming company fronts, with the movements of right and left front into line and on right into line, and as pivot man, I think I did mighty well. Our squad never stepped off a pace ahead of time on any of the formations. And when we were marching back to the barracks at mess time, the Sergeant came up beside me, and remarked, by way of apology for hauling me out of the ranks earlier in the morning, that I was doing good pivot work.

Perhaps we didn’t enjoy mess! Three helpings of navy beans for me with pineapple marmalade, and a piece of salt pork on the side, not to mention three cups of coffee and three slices of bread. I sure had luck on the mess line to-day.

This afternoon the First Lieutenant took charge of the company, and he had us traipsing all over the landscape again, doing the same sort of close order manoeuvres, and when we lined up just before retreat he announced that we would have rifles to-morrow morning.

It is interesting to see how rumours travel and gather force in the barracks. Some one, somehow, heard that an artist and a stenographer from our company are to sail for France in a day or two. Of course, all my friends have come to the conclusion that I am the artist. A chap told me about it at mess this evening, and since then several dozen have looked me up to shake hands with me and tell me good-bye, with such remarks as: “Hear you have orders to sail for France to-morrow; great.” “They tell me you got a commission from Washington and that you are going across in a day or two,” or, “Say, you’re a lucky chap; where’d you get the drag down in Washington?”

But these queries fail absolutely to thrill me. I am quite calm and undisturbed. I deny any “drag” whatever, and I know that I am not the artist mentioned in the order for transfer, if there is any such order, which I doubt. This is only about the nth time that same rumour has been afloat as a result of which I have bade good-bye to my friends about every other day only to discover myself still with them a week later with the same old rumour bobbing up again.