Real luck at last. No more kitchen policing, thank goodness. It all happened thus:

About the time we had cleaned up the remains of breakfast and I was getting ready to turn out for “settin’ ups,” along comes the Captain with two Lieutenants in tow, all with official looking papers. We lined up and he looked us all over very critically. Then he read:

“Any members of this company qualified to fill the following positions, step one pace,” and a list of occupations followed that included everything from barber to horse trainer and stage carpenter. Quite a few of us stepped out. About ten of the Italian contingent responded at the word barber. Fat came forward as stage carpenter, and when he said artist I stepped three paces forward instead of one and, saluting, handed him my recommendation for the Camouflage Corps. I knew I wasn’t doing quite the proper thing. But you see we were all young and innocent of such things as military courtesy, and the Captain overlooked the fact that one pace didn’t mean three, and after he had mentally debated the question of calling me down in front of the company and had given me the benefit of inexperience, he read the recommendation.

The result was that I was ordered to report immediately to the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion. And with visions of avoiding physical exercises for about two hours and the preparing of a midday meal, I needed no urging. I gathered up my bed, hay mattress, blankets and all and proceeded to find the barracks of the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion.

Of course, it had to be located at the other end of the twenty-four square miles of reservation. But I had company. Fat, loaded down like a dromedary under bed, blankets, a suitcase and all, was looking for the same barracks. So we started on our wanderings together, hopeful of finding our new home before dinner was served.

We found it. And we found a lot of other fellows looking for the same home. It seems this Depot Battalion, of which I am now a part, is composed entirely of specialists, lawyers, linguists, engineers, artists, architects, carpenters and what not, and just about the time we were being transferred, other specialists were being selected from other companies and sent on their way to the Headquarters Divisions of the various regiments. So our corner of the camp has been quite popular all day, with men staggering in under loads of personal belongings like a lot of gipsies looking for new places to hang their O.D’s.

We, I mean Fat and myself, are among a different class of fellows now and this moving business has changed my opinion of the camp. From a hit or miss proposition as it first appeared, it has become a very systematic and well-organized cantonment. It is being worked out like a gigantic piece of machinery and there isn’t any question in my mind now but that we will all, sooner or later, fit into the places where we will be able to serve the Government best. Here I have been trying for months to discover how I can get into the Camouflage Corps, which so far as I could learn was a mythical organization which no one knew very much about. Meanwhile, I have been hoping to keep out of the draft army for fear of being side-tracked and given a bayonet, instead of a paint brush, to beat the Huns with.

And here I am conscripted, and inside of a week singled out as material for the Camouflage unit, with a nice place waiting for me to stay until said unit needs me. They are doing it up in really businesslike fashion and no doubting it.

But in the shuffle I’ve lost my dog. He’s only been with me a few days and he’s done nothing but get me into trouble all the time, yet I miss the little beggar. He wasn’t about when I gathered up my belongings this morning, and I haven’t had time to look him up all day. Perhaps, before taps I’ll wander down to the other barracks and see if I can find him.