Dear Mother:—

Our good Lucy is a different lad from the one that landed here a week ago. Did I tell you that he has come to the heroic resolution to clean his own gun? I suppose the strongest factor in that is his detestation of Randall. It’s quite common here for fellows to get the regulars to clean their guns, and there’s more to be said for that than for many other indulgences: at least it’s better for the rifles. The regulars drive a good little trade of this kind, and David has twice sent out his piece to be laundered, as it were. But I know that he perceived that the sentiment of the squad is against it, and I think he’s sensitive enough to understand the reasons. We’re all here to learn to be soldiers, and taking care of his gun is a pretty important part of a soldier’s job. And then we’re an economical crowd. David and I are the only ones in the squad that didn’t have to pinch a little in order to get here; even Corder spoke recently of the expense as something unwelcome. So it’s really rather bad form to pay for outside service. Yet for all that, David couldn’t quite bring himself to do the dirty work.

So when a regular came to us yesterday, before inspection, and asked for guns to clean, David began to get his gun out of the rack. He looked a little uneasily at Knudsen, but the Swede wouldn’t see it; he kept squinting through his own piece. The regular, to make matters sure, said, “Mr. Randall told me you’d give me your gun. I always clean his.” With the funniest little set of his jaw, as if he didn’t quite know how to do it, David reached for the cleaning rod. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Randall is mistaken. I clean my gun myself.” Then he sat down beside Knudsen, as if sure that the other would teach him—in which he was right. His dirty hands at the end were a sad sight to him, and yet I think he was proud of them too.

This morning Randall, who hasn’t learned (and I question if he ever will) how unwelcome he is in our tent, came in to brag a little—and of what! There stands to the south of us a big hotel whose bulk is visible from the camp, a strong temptation to all our luxurious budding Napoleons. Randall was there last night, and came in to tell us what he had to eat. Particularly he enjoyed, he said, the fresh asparagus tips. Pickle’s envy overcame his dislike, and he had nothing to say. But David’s eye gleamed. “Fresh asparagus tips?” he asked. “Scarcely that.” “Indeed?” demanded Randall. “I know asparagus when I eat it.” “But not fresh asparagus,” countered David. “It’s not to be had in September. Canned tips, Randall, that’s all.” And Pickle, in his relief, cackled aloud.

I have of late told you so little of our officers that I must say something about them here, of officers as a class, and ours in particular. We are at the stage of theoretical conferences—after the regimental meeting each night on the drill-field is a company conference at each company tent, where the non-coms are expected to go, and where all others are invited. Consequently the captain or lieutenant has forty men there each night, crowded close around the table and packed at the open side of the tent. We are learning the theory of field skirmish work, with a glance at the method of advancing by road into an enemy’s country.

And I must say that our officers have at their tongues’ ends the whole of the principle that is embodied in that strange little book, the drill regulations. As soon as you have got beyond the mere parade-ground work (and that is all the civilian ever sees) the book brings you to a region where nothing else is considered than the one thing, attack, attack, attack. There is something very grim and inexorable in this primer of war, this A B C of the principles of destruction. And if the innocent little pocket manual contains a codification, so condensed as to be amazing, of the ways to slay your enemy, the officers are ready with every possible amplification of its dry paragraphs. Get forward, always get forward, is their intention. Make your fire effective, make it destructive, make it overwhelming. With word, with blackboard plan and section, with theory, with practical illustration, each night they lay before us some new field of this really awful knowledge. We study it eagerly. Two years ago I should have been horrified at these doctrines that they preach. Today I regard knowledge of them, by a sufficient number of able-bodied men, as the great need of the country.

So much, dear mother, of things which to speak of in detail would only pain your kind heart. As to the men that teach us, I can say that they improve upon acquaintance. Each of them, the captain and lieutenant, has his own way of teaching. In the lieutenant a coolness of statement that seems to imply a calm unshakableness, as of one who has measured all risks and sees that they amount to nothing. In the captain equal clearness but more fire. Both see that the only safety is in attack. They answer our questions quite differently, the lieutenant with a crisp completeness that leaves nothing to inquire but much to ponder on, the captain with an illuminating phrase that humanizes everything and brings instant understanding. Their men will go wherever they send them in a fight, for the lieutenant because they know he must be right, for the captain because they feel it.

We never, I think, can know the lieutenant very well, because of that quality which I saw in him at his first appearance before us, an aloofness that taunts us into the determination to please him. The captain I am sure we know already, a worker, a driver, but one who shows us that he understands our mistakes by the very keenness of his irony. “I have found you men to place the hip anywhere between the armpit and the knee. So I will place it for you at the watch pocket. That is your official hip, gentlemen.” “Yes, skirmishers in Europe are now wearing steel helmets. But if you men don’t better learn to keep under cover you won’t need steel helmets, you’ll need battleships.” “You can’t take too many precautions in the use of your guns. In this game with me out in front, I’m an advocate of safety first.”

The men like him, but more than that, they respect him. You know, mother, that I can tell something at first hand about learning one’s job. But these officers put the average civilian to shame. I doubt if there is stronger professional feeling, or a higher standard of professional achievement, anywhere in the world. If all the other officers are like our two, West Pointers are a formidable body of men.