Only when the three hundred odd new cadets have been transferred to camp and joined the Battalion, do they begin to feel that they are members of the Corps. They are, however, ill-formed, crude, ungainly members, and from the moment they pass the hedge that screens the camp from the visitors’ seats, the Tactical gardeners begin the work of bending these natural twigs, so recently transplanted from the individualistic soil of civilian life to the orthodox ground of military training.

Realizing how difficult it is for a young man to adapt himself to the changed conditions that he meets at West Point, the authorities require the new cadet to report in June, just as the academic year has closed, in order that he may receive the benefit of the summer-camp training before taking up his studies. The physical fatigue that the new plebe experiences is really so great, that he would not be able to plunge into the academic course before his body has become accustomed to the demands made upon it. The aching muscles, the drooping eyes, that awful heaviness of fatigue must all be given time to pass away so that the mind may be free to pursue its development. To this end, he goes into camp after his first few weeks in “Beast Barracks.”

The camp is prettily situated in the northeast corner of the Plain along the bluff overlooking the Hudson. In form it is rectangular, laid out for six companies whose streets are centrally cut by an avenue known as the general parade. The streets are parallel to the parade ground proper, from which they are separated and screened by a hedge.

Nor is the cadet camp lacking in the features that make every permanent camp comfortable and convenient for the soldier. For these creature comforts, the cadets have been at times criticised on the ground that soldiers in the field should be content with the bare necessities of life. The cadet camp, however, is intended as a camp of instruction only. In military life there are two kinds of camps, the permanent camp and the temporary camp. In the latter, soldiers live close to nature dispensing with the hundred and one little conveniences that all of us today consider necessary to our physical well-being, but in the former, such as the cadet encampment, the soldier is provided with a maximum of comfort—and why not? The illustrated magazines that help to bring us closer to the Great War in Europe give visual proof that when men remain for any length of time in one place, even in the zone of danger, they build and adorn abodes. It may be that an enemy shell will destroy these shelters the next moment, but the domestic instinct remains unimpaired. Some of the bomb-proof dugouts on the western front are miniature triumphs of architecture and comfort. The occupation year after year of the cadet camp has had the same effect. We therefore see today a camp with graveled company streets that are illuminated at night by electricity. The tents, instead of being pegged, are supported by galvanized iron rails. The dim candle of olden times is replaced by the brilliant electric bulb, and the cadet, instead of reposing his weary bones on the hard wooden floor, slumbers luxuriously on a Gold Medal cot.

A large central tent, like a mother hen watching over her brood, is reserved for the Commandant of Cadets. The tents of the cadet officers are on the opposite edge of the space in front of the Tactical officers’ tents, the next indication of hierarchical authority. Then come the tents of the non-commissioned officers and the privates.

To have a neat-looking camp, strict regulations govern the arrangement of the tents. Twice a day they are aligned. Due to changes in the temperature, the supporting cords lengthen or shorten, so that the front tent-pole gets out of alignment. Then an authoritative voice rings out:

“Turn out, ‘B’ company, and straighten your tent-poles!” Whereupon cadets in all conditions of dress and undress tumble out of the little brown canvas homes. When it rains the cords must be loosened at the first pitter-patter of the raindrops on the tent-fly. The new plebe sitting in his underwear in his tent, probably polishing his breastplate for the twenty-fifth time that day, does not realize that this duty must be performed until a dozen or more yearlings command from the recesses of the canvas bungalows:

“Turn out, you plebes, and loosen those tent-cords!” Out they jump into the “catacombs” (the space between the tents), bumping their heads against the rails, and at once commence tugging at the obstinate, water-soaked tent-cords, while the summer downpour soaks them to the skin.

To each tent two cadets are assigned, one of whom performs for a week at a time the duty of tent orderly. Whenever the cadet detailed for orderly is absent on account of duty or sickness, his tent-mate becomes responsible. In order that the Tactical officer in charge of any company may know which cadet is responsible, there is fastened on the front tent-pole, a revolving octagonal disk of wood, about three inches in diameter. Both cadets’ names, as well as the words “Guard” “Sick,” are printed on the face of the disk, along one of the sides, and the disk revolved to indicate the name of the orderly, or the cause of the occupant’s absence. The orderly is also supposed to keep the water bucket filled, but the occupants of each tent usually have some private treaty whose provisions prescribe which one shall “drag” the water from the hydrant.

Generally speaking the orderly is responsible for the cleanliness and police of the tent, and of the ground adjacent and in front, as far as the middle of the company street where the rubbish is swept into a pile to be removed by the policemen. These men are civilian employees, many of whom have been at the Academy so long that they are intimately identified with the Corps. In time, some of them will fade into legendary characters much the same as Benny Havens. Promptly at police call at five o’clock, the wheelbarrow squad commanded by “Mike,” “Frank,” or “Tony,” moves ceremoniously down the street collecting the sweepings. At this hour the camp presents an animated scene. Cadets are busily dragging the ground around their tents with a broom to give it a “spoony” appearance for inspection, and every few minutes some one man will dart out to the center of the street with a stray match or piece of paper and throw it in the passing wheelbarrow.

The interior of the tent contains a wooden clothes-press and usually a canvas stretcher suspended from the ridge pole. Each cadet has a certain section for his clothes. All articles, belts, gloves, socks must be folded and arranged in a prescribed manner. The cots are folded and kept out of sight during the day. Gray, painted wooden lockers for storing cleaning material and clothing border one side of the tent floor. Many cadets, however, secrete food, known as “Boodle” in these convenient places, and I am sure that an unexpected inspection would reveal many tins of saltines, bottles of olives, and jars of peanut butter. During my cadet days, the officer in charge of my company never, for some reason, looked into the lockers. My tent-mate and I therefore grew more and more bold about filling them with vast supplies of “Boodle,” and we began to think that the “Tac” was inspired by a sort of noblesse oblige where the lockers were concerned, a sort of sympathetic remembrance of his own cadet-gnawing appetite. One Saturday, however, just as he was leaving and I was offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving, he ordered the lockers opened. A gallon jar in which some fifty olives lay submerged and a slovenly looking pineapple cheese met my humiliated gaze. A reprimand that as a cadet officer I should set an example to the rest of the company, and five demerits, were awarded to me forthwith.

When the tents are not prepared for inspection, however, cadets may make down the cots and rest. How wonderfully refreshing it is to rest! to throw oneself down on the blankets and forget the heat, the weary march, the grime, the dust, and abandon oneself to the delights of the imagination, dreaming of the sweetness of the past or building vast plans for the future! How precious to the cadet is each moment of repose snatched from the busy day! But it is in the morning that the real longing for sleep becomes most acute.

Every morning at 5:20, the solitary boom of the reveille gun is echoed throughout the hills, rudely dissipating the fog of unconsciousness that envelops the sleeping cadets. Little by little the deathlike slumber of the camp is broken. Indistinct sounds, a sigh, a yawn, float gently out upon the air; drugged forms twist and roll uncertainly beneath the mosquito bars, as if struggling in a bewildered sort of way to preserve the pleasing heaviness that charms their bodies.

Suddenly the air is torn by the shrill garrulous fifes and the lusty rub-a-dub-dub of the drums. The reveille march has begun. Around the camp the “Hell Cats” march, up one street, down another like demons possessed. The shrieking sounds of the fifes and the deep rolling noise of the drums brusquely rout the stillness of the dawn, while the semi-conscious forms toy with danger, beguiling themselves that there is plenty of time until the assembly. Presently from near the general parade the familiar warning notes of Yankee Doodle change the camp to a place of intense animation. Up go mosquito bars and in a twinkling, almost as if by magic, tents disgorge their sleepy occupants, hastily and feverishly buttoning their uniforms as they run to their places in ranks to the fading rolls of the drum corps.

After reveille it takes but a few minutes to police the tents and perform the necessary ablutions before breakfast. The drills commence within a half-hour after the morning meal and continue until noon. They are of various kinds, the majority of which will be described in the chapter entitled “Lessons from Mars,” but I will speak of the plebe’s work in his first camp, since it is somewhat different.

The physical exercises given to the new cadet in “Beast Barracks” are continued in camp. In addition, he is sent to the Gymnasium for swimming, where a professional instructor is present to see that no one drowns, and to teach the various strokes. As many of the cadets are adept swimmers upon entrance, they are tested, and those found qualified are excused from further attendance. The men who cannot swim, the real “land lubbers,” attend daily until they are proficient.

The most diverting instruction, however, in plebe camp is the dancing lesson. A civilian professor spends the summer at West Point to instruct the fourth classmen in the Terpsichorean art. Every morning at hour intervals, squads of cadets carrying their pumps march across the parade to Cullum Hall. Here they remove their coats, put on their pumps, and line themselves along the wall. The waltz step is first taught as the basis of all dancing, then later the two-step, and, since the new dances have come upon us, the fox-trot and one-step are rehearsed toward the end of the course. The dancing lesson is not open to visitors. Once upon a time it was, but long cadets, short cadets, fat cadets, lean cadets, awkward and graceful ones, all tiptoeing, “one- and two- and threeing” around the room like a lot of coy young hippopotami with compass bearings lost, became a famous sight for tourists, who wanted to enjoy a good laugh. How could anyone learn to dance in the presence of a giggling crowd! But the crowd wasn’t to blame! Here in one corner was a little slender chap delicate as a reed, perspiring in his efforts to steer his six-foot partner, a regular steam roller, through the mazes of Professor Vesay’s old-fashioned waltz. Again, all over the room, self-conscious boys in white shirt-sleeves were in a bewildered state trying to execute the Professor’s directions:

“Right foot in second position—glide and cut!” Nowadays an officer excludes all sightseers during the lesson.

The instruction of the plebe in infantry drill continues uninterruptedly, for it is essential that he should not spoil the appearance of the rest of the battalion. Together with swimming, dancing, and infantry drill, his morning is completely occupied. After the midday dinner, he is assembled in squad for instruction in hygiene and guard duty, or he may be required to spend his time working upon his equipment, his brasses, his bayonet, and rifle.

Very little social diversion is permitted to the plebe, because he is usually awkward in appearance and unfamiliar with military customs and deportment. Consequently he considers that his life is excessively hard, to him unnecessarily so; but as I have observed cadets for thirteen years I am convinced of the wisdom of holding them in a distinct class for one year. Then they emerge from the cocoon of plebedom as dazzling yearling butterflies.

To afford instruction in guard duty the camp is surrounded by sentinels. A quota of cadets from each company marches on guard immediately after parade in the evening. There are three reliefs for each of the ten posts: three corporals, a sergeant, and two officers of the guard, and an officer of the day. The guard is under the control and supervision of the officer in charge, who is one of the Tactical officers. Each sentinel walks two hours and rests four, so that during the twenty-four hours the cadet walks eight hours. The effect of this duty upon the cadet is lasting, for it teaches him the fatigue a sentinel experiences and prevents him, when an officer, from demanding too much of his men. The borders of the camp are divided into posts, numbered from 1 to 10.

The first important duty demanded of the plebe is guard. With what quivering sensations this youthful soldier approaches his first real test! Before he goes on guard he is instructed in his orders, both general and special, but few feel as if they knew them well enough to stand the ordeal of an inspection by a yearling corporal. No opportunity is lost, therefore, before the hour to march on post to perfect his knowledge, so that after supper little groups of excited and nervous plebes study diligently these orders under the pale and insect-infested lamp-posts near the guard tent. In the obscure light these slim gray forms, some seated and some standing, seem shadowy and motionless except for their gloves, little dabs of white that move restlessly to and fro, attacking the ubiquitous mosquitoes.

The nearby guard tents under the elms are dark except the main one where sit the officers of the guard, who keep the record of a stream of gay upper-classmen, signing out for the hops and concerts. How far off they are to the plebe! It seems to each one, as he watches them from the shadows, that there is an impassable gulf between them, and he wonders as he listens to their hurried voices calling, “Ducrot, hop with,” or “Dumbguard, hop with, extended” if ever his year of plebedom will roll by. What are those unintelligible remarks? It is some time before he understands that the above expressions mean that Cadet Ducrot is taking a young lady to the hop, and that Cadet Dumbguard also, except that the latter’s girl lives at some distance so that he is allowed ten minutes more after the conclusion of the dance to escort the young lady to her home. Today, as I stroll by the camp in the evening and see the same scenes reËnacted, I re-live the first impressions of my own plebe days.

Often while I was waiting my turn to go on post, I sat fascinated as I watched the scene at the guard tents in the twilight of the summer evenings. From the obscurity of the camp, stalwart figures were constantly coming. Their gray coats and the evening mists merged into one so completely, it seemed as if only animated pairs of white trousers were flitting across the parade, all converging toward Post No. 1. Little by little, as they approached the light of the guard tent, the rays that were stabbing the darkness illumined the bell buttons of the gray coats, and for a brief moment gleaming forms with happy laughing faces filled the picture and then into the darkness of the Plain quickly disappeared.

Such reveries, however, are usually interrupted by a sharp voice calling:

“Turn out the second relief!” “Hurry up, you plebes,” and away the novitiates scamper to perform their first guard tour. As the relief marches around the graveled paths under the command of a very military corporal, the plebe has, in spite of his feeling of uncertainty, a sensation of pride in being entrusted with the guard of a part of the camp. Each time that the corporal commands “Relief Halt No. 2!” and the rifles hit the ground in unison, a pleasurable thrill pervades his being, a consciousness of a certain importance. Before very much pride can swell his breast, he is brought back to reality by the stern corporal exclaiming, “Wake up, Mr. Dumbguard, and come to port arms!” or “Drag in your chin!” In goes the chin, and the shoulders instinctively draw to the rear. Glory was brief; humiliation reigns anew.

Then commences in earnest the lonely two hours of marching up and down, back and forth, at the end of which time the nine pounds of the rifle has tripled at least. The arms ache, and legs feel as if they would bore holes in the body.

The early part of the tour is filled with interest. The animation in some company streets in contrast to the silence in others, the occasional tinkling of mandolins, the cries from one tent to another, the laughter over a surreptitious bucket of lemonade, the Y. M. C. A. phonograph, the confusion over the wash lists, scampering cadets noisily returning from hops and concerts—all keep a sentinel from thinking of himself. It is not until the three taps of the drum, when the camp is magically plunged into obscurity and silence, that the plebe begins to feel the monotony of his duty and, while walking mechanically back and forth on his post, to become introspective.

The stillness of the camp only accentuates his slow nonchalant step on the path. In his imagination the air seems to be filled with invisible spirits—the spirits of the night that have come forth. First he is conscious of only a few timid ones here and there, but as the hours wear on they seem to grow bolder and bolder, filling the surrounding atmosphere and whispering in his ear their ghostly messages. Each nerve becomes more alert as he listens for the crunch, crunch, crunch of some official step on the gravel. How vivid and eerie seem his surroundings! The lonesome hours of the night strike a sympathetic chord in his sensitive nature and the balmy stillness calls forth his starry fancies. At this hour when his comrades lie in their tents bewitched by sleep, the most beguiling of enchantments, he is conscious that another mysterious world is awakening all around him in the solitude and silence. The air is filled with fairies holding their imperceptible revels. He hears the rustling of the leaves, the intermittent chattering of the crickets, the soughing of the breeze in the branches, as if the trees in great distress were calling mournfully to each other. Should this be the first time that he is alone at night on post, he is a little afraid, and starts at the faintest sound. It seems that when man reposes, the Things come forth to their daily tasks, performed in a world unknown to us.

Never will he forget, however, the ineffable beauty of the scene, so beautiful that he is filled with a little sadness. The buildings across the Plain, stern and melancholy even in the darkness, seemed to be companion sentinels ever watchful over their traditions, and guarding the sleeping hills dimly discernible through their misty blankets. Occasionally a graceful river steamer, like some huge Jack-o’-Lantern ruffling the smooth waters of the Hudson, glides softly by under the cliff, her throbbing engines seeming to send forth a certain warmth that dispels the chill of the early morning.

It is at this hour especially that his thoughts wander to his “ain Folk” and reveal to his senses the full aroma of his days at home.

The clanking of a sword in the darkness calls him back to earth and to the realization that the dreaded inspection is at hand.

“Halt! Who goes there?” he quickly challenges.

“Corporal of the Guard,” answers a sepulchral voice from the shadows.

“Advance, Corporal of the Guard, with the countersign,” uncertainly commands the plebe. When within whispering distance, the corporal faintly breathes the countersign, “Saratoga,” or “Burgoyne” (or maybe TannhÄuser or Dumbguard, to test the sentinel), whereupon the corporal is allowed to pass by the sentinel’s order:

“Advance, Corporal of the Guard.”

In the eyes of the yearling corporal, a plebe is habitually wrong, so that for a few trying minutes the benighted sentinel endeavors to “take charge of his post and all government property in view,” while his preceptor picks him to pieces, his bearing, his accoutrements, his knowledge, admonishing him at intervals, to “Drag in his chin—way in.” But soon, the solitude of the night begins to work even upon the yearling corporal constraining him to indulge in a partial intimacy with the plebe, adding in softened tones:

“Mister, where are you from?”

“South Carolina, sir,” proudly responds the sentinel, touched by the upper-classman’s near-cordiality.

With a gruff “Pretty fine State, mister,” the corporal virtuously departs to interrogate his next victim.

How welcome now is the first faint tread of the relief as it makes its bi-hourly round to take the sleepy sentinel back to the guard tent where a bed of camp stools awaits his aching muscles.

The tour of guard of a new cadet is sometimes made uncomfortable by the pranks of the upper-classmen, although since the abolition of hazing at West Point, this form of diversion has greatly diminished. The regulations against hazing have been made so stringent that few cadets indulge in the practice. As a matter of fact hazing no longer exists at the Military Academy. A few heedless chaps from time to time, forgetful of the future, unconscious of the heartburns that they will suffer later on, indulge in hazing the plebes, but they pay the price for their fun. Formerly, hazing was tolerated among the cadets because some of its features were not harmful or objectionable, but, as in all cases where a little liberty is granted to lads of immature judgment, license followed. The practice was carried too far and moderation ceased to exist. In 1901, at the instance of a former cadet’s parents, Congress ordered an investigation of hazing conditions, with the result that the Superintendent was directed to abolish all semblance of mistreatment of plebes by upper-classmen.

The more vicious practices disappeared at once, but from time to time investigation revealed isolated cases of the innocent kind. In the days of hazing, the favorite and most injurious punishment meted out to a plebe, if he were at all fresh, or “B. J.” as the cadets say, was a series of exercises known as “eagles.” The new man would be taken in a tent, stripped to the waist, and compelled to execute a setting-up exercise, “Full bend knees.” The knees are separated and bent as much as possible; point of knees forced forward and downward, heels together; trunk and head erect; but instead of placing the hands on the hips, he was required to raise the arms laterally. It is not the exercise itself that was injurious, but the duration of the punishment. Some men were required to “eagle” 100 or 150 times without a rest, and if they had committed a particularly heinous offense, this physical rebuke was administered under the broiling sun in the “catacombs.” Another form of punishment consisted in making plebes, stripped to the waist, hold pieces of matches or tissue paper, between their shoulder blades for half an hour or more, while their tormentors stood around insisting that they flatten their chins to their necks.

But this punishment was not viewed by the plebes with as much dismay as was the servitude to “Tabasco Sauce.” The prowling yearlings would descend into the Fourth Class sink, line up the plebes, and order them to stick out their tongues, upon which they dashed a flop or two of the burning liquid and fled. Sometimes, at the Mess Hall, as much as half a teaspoonful was meted out for some unconscious transgression by the plebe of the upper-classmen’s wishes. Fortunately the above practices have long since disappeared.

On the other hand, the greater part of the hazing consisted of what is known at college as “fagging,” such as dragging water, sweeping tents, making beds, cleaning brasses and rifles, making lemonade, running errands, sewing buttons on white trousers, etc. Each upper-classman selected a plebe for his “special duty man” to perform the aforementioned tasks. Most of the plebes did the duty cheerfully, buoyed up by the thought that next year their turn to have a plebe would arrive. A large part of the hazing, moreover, was the so-called “deviling” the plebes, a generic term applied to all kinds of humorous and mischievous pranks. Any cadet, for example, who possessed any peculiarity of size, appearance, or temperament was given a “tech” or technical name, to be used always in lieu of his own. One of my classmates, whose tent was in a part of the camp called “Paradise Alley,” was given in consequence of his auburn hair the following “tech” with strict instructions to use it no matter who asked him his name. In reply, therefore, to the same inquiry, “Who are you?” many times daily, he scrupulously replied:

“I am a too-loo-loo bird, sir! Peep-y-ty-peep, sir! Poop-y-ty-poop! Ah! ... there. I’m the sunshine of Paradise Alley, sir; I am a queen, sir. My hair is sky-blue pink with a heavenly border, sir! Don’t you think I’m handsome, sir? I don’t give a damn, sir!”

This “tech” became famous, the peep-y-ty-peep part fastening itself upon him as a nickname. Of course, all of these pranks were carried on sub rosa and presumedly without the sanction or knowledge of the authorities. One night, however, the cadet was detailed for guard for the first time. It happened that his tour of duty was from 2 A.M. to 4 A.M., those awful hours of the night. “Peep-y-ty-peep” was patrolling his post ready to charge anything that came along. Suddenly the huge shadow of a cavalry Tactical officer with a rattling saber and jingling spurs loomed out of the darkness. Frantically “Peep-y-ty-peep” charged down the post screaming, “Halt! Halt! who’s thar?” (in good old Alabama English), until most of the sleeping cadets in the vicinity of the post were awakened. After a few minutes of backing and filling the massive cavalry officer arrived in front of the now thoroughly bewildered “sunshine of Paradise Alley,” and began to ask him his orders. Poor old “Peep-y-ty-peep” forgot them all, general and special. After vain, fruitless efforts to obtain an expression of opinion of some sort from the sentinel, this officer said in desperation: “Who are you, anyway?” Whereupon perfectly seriously the rooky sentinel cried at the top of his voice, while the nearby tents shook with laughter, “I’m a too-loo-loo bird, sir! Peep-y-ty-peep, sir! Poop-y-ty-poop, sir! Ah...! there. I’m the sunshine of Paradise Alley, sir! I’m—” The Tactical officer hurriedly disappeared.

Such incidents as the above kept the plebes from becoming too depressed. The fun of the upper-classmen found many other outlets. On days when watermelons were served in the Mess Hall, the plebes were required at the conclusion of the meal to fill their mouths with seeds, and thus loaded to the gunwales to march back to camp. The wriggling, squirming, slippery little black particles fought with one another to burst open the encircling mouth en cul de poule and leap to freedom, and occasionally their efforts were successful, on the march back to camp, to the detriment of the blouse of the plebe’s front rank file. More frequently, however, upon arrival at camp, the plebes of A Co. were lined up at six paces from those of B Co., and at a given signal the human machine guns belched forth their glossy black bullets. One upper-classman ordered me to gather a handful from the battlefield and plant them around his tent. To my dismay and chagrin they sprouted, whereupon I was instructed to care for them, keep them in health or sickness, and train the growing vines on slender cords.

The plebes were hardly allowed a moment to themselves. Every spare moment was employed in cleaning guns, brasses and other equipment, chiefly of upper-classmen for whom one happened to be a “special duty man.” If some unoffending sparrows alighted in the company streets, half a dozen yearling voices rang out, “Turn out, you plebes, and chase those eagles!” Lads in all sorts and conditions of undress fell precipitately out of their tents, bayonets in hand, to drive away the innocent feathered marauders. If an upper-classman wished to know the time, he would yell, “Quelle heure est-il?” a whole chorus replied, “Two o’clock, sir!” Again, every plebe was required upon inquiry to give his P. C. S., or previous condition of servitude. Those who had none, never having worked in their lives, were made to answer “schoolgirl,” as a mark of immaturity and unworldliness. Never was a plebe permitted to say: “I don’t know.” “Say something, Mr. Dumbguard,” was the admonishment followed by: “If you cannot think of anything, say ‘steamboat’! Never say that you don’t know!”

I once stood behind a man in ranks who weighed, he said, 190 pounds. I weighed but 120. It became my daily duty to weigh and report to him how much of his frail body I, as his near rank file, left uncovered and exposed to the elements. When a plebe was on guard at night, some of the yearlings would appear on his post covered with sheets which they fluttered at a great rate.

“Halt! Who goes there?” cries the sentinel.

“A flock of angels,” was the reply, and before the sentinel could get the corporal of the guard, the flock had flown.

The piÈce de rÉsistance of the camp was, however, a rat funeral for which elaborate preparations were made. Efforts for days were exerted to catch a rat or a mouse, but if neither could be beguiled into the trap, a grasshopper served the purpose. In a plebe’s tent an imposing catafalque, equal to that prepared for any crowned head, was constructed of wooden lockers covered with black rubber ponchos. Upon the top of this bier surrounded by candles was Mr. Rat.

During the night preceding the obsequies a guard of honor of the plebes, fantastically dressed, kept a running watch over the fast-stiffening rodent. Next day, after drill, came the funeral. Orders were issued by the upper-classmen for all plebes to attend and for those having musical instruments to appear with them. One plebe was detailed to act as chaplain and prepare the funeral oration, another as leader of the band, another as chief mourner. The remainder of the plebes were the afflicted relatives whose weeds were the most bizarre and fantastic costumes that they could create. In the procession, therefore, were plebes in underdrawers and dress coats buttoned in the rear, hats reversed, breeches with no shoes, shoes without breeches, ponchos over nature only, and sometimes in puris naturalibus. Each mourner, moreover, came with a galvanized bucket to catch his tears.

First appeared the band composed of mandolins and guitars, a stray violin, and perhaps a lonely cornet, followed by the deceased borne upon a canvas stretcher strewn with dandelions. To the tune of Chopin’s funeral march, the grotesquely arrayed mourners followed the bier, chanting from time to time a parody written for the music and entitled “Somebody Hit Me with a Codfish Ball!” At a signal from the chief mourner the cortÈge halted to allow the plebes to deliver themselves with abandon to their grief. By order, they raised the galvanized buckets to catch the “tears that stopped the flood-gates of their eyes,” while they filled the air with agonized mournings and lamentations. If the sobbing and blubbering appeared too faint, the upper-classmen who lined the route increased the wailings by yelling, “Weep louder, you plebes!”

At the grave, somewhere in the rear of the camp, the “chaplain,” “Daddy” Singles, spoke feelingly of the departed one’s nobility of soul. The gnawing grief of the multitude gave way once more to despair (and usually to laughter) as they lowered into the ground poor old Mr. Rat, whose rigid whiskers gave him an amused expression, as if he were enjoying his honorable end.

After two months’ training in camp, the cadets return to barracks to begin their academic duties. At once, all nonsense ceases, and the new cadet is in no wise interfered with, even in fun. The routine changes completely and the day becomes fuller. Reveille is a half hour later, but the work increases and there are fewer leisure moments.

It is to the more serious and inexorable side of his training that the cadet must now turn. Life in barracks is more sedate, more formal, more cold than the free existence of camp where he and his comrades were living close to Nature. The time has arrived to renounce the pleasure of sleeping in the open, of breathing the fragrant out-of-doors, of living in the midst of scenery that appeals to every Æsthetic faculty. It is in the rooms of barracks that the next nine months must be passed, the severe unadorned rooms whose bareness, however, is forgotten in the ineffable sweetness of the friendship of one’s roommate. At no place, perhaps, are closer friendships formed than at West Point. They are not of the whirlwind kind so common elsewhere today, that sweep one off his feet for the time being. Nor are they like some great roaring wind that shakes one’s nature to its depths and then leaves him bruised and torn, but wide awake at last, to spend its force in other directions. Rather are they friendships of slower growth, but deep and sincere, belonging more to a mature age than to the irresponsible years of a cadet when his enthusiasm, his likes and dislikes, seem to be the only things necessary to foster.

The difficulties of his studies, the homesickness, the fatigue of the drills, the irksomeness of the routine, are all lightened by the intimacy with his chum, by the smile of sympathy, or the word of encouragement that greets him at all times. It is a great privilege to live in close contact with a human being and be allowed a glimpse into his soul. It compensates for all the stony paths of life, for all hardships, and sends one forth to his duties with a feeling of joy and gladness, strong in heart and thankful to God.

In every room in barracks dwell two chums, each the “wife” of the other. The increased number of cadets and the negligence of Congress to provide extra barracks have caused the introduction of Mormonism, for in some rooms are three chums, each with two “wives.”

The most striking feature about the rooms is their plainness. Here the cadet is “allowed not more than nature needs,” or scarcely more, for an inventory of the furniture discloses two iron cots, one iron washstand, two plain wooden tables, two wooden chairs, and two steel clothespresses. The walls and floors are bare, for the Regulations prohibit rugs, carpets, pictures, placards, banners, or any other adornment. Upon the plain black iron mantel in the middle is a mirror, flanked by black tin frames containing the hours of instruction and a time schedule designed to indicate at all times the whereabouts of the occupants of the room. Not to have the hours of instruction correctly posted is a military offense. No matter where the cadet is, at recitation, barber shop, church, lecture, hospital, library, his card must so indicate. In addition, a small inexpensive clock may be kept on the mantel.

To give each occupant of the room a little privacy, a wooden partition juts out half way into the room dividing this space into two alcoves, in which are placed the cots. During the day the mattresses are folded and upon them the bedding is piled. Only during release from quarters, and after 9:00 P.M., are the beds allowed to be made down and used. Along the sides of each alcove are hooks for the clothing, which must be hung in a prescribed manner; for example, 1st hook, raincoat; 2d hook, overcoats; 3d, sweater coat, and so on. The shoes are aligned toes out, along the side of the bed, in a definite order, the high overshoes as right guide, then the low overshoes, and other shoes according to height.

Upon the top of the clothespress are the books, arranged according to height, newspapers, periodicals, stationery, cameras, and tobacco. In the shelf section each of the various articles of clothing has a prescribed place, and in the coat section the uniforms are hung in a regular order. Only on the top shelf of the clothespress may the cadet keep a photograph.

In front of and against the alcove partition is the washstand with its two wash bowls. The water, hot and cold, is drawn from a hydrant in the hall. This arrangement is a great luxury in comparison with the old days when, to heat water for shaving, we poured it over a joint in the radiator.

In barracks as in camp there is a room orderly who is responsible for the condition, cleanliness, and general police of all parts of the room. The cadets sweep their own rooms and make their own beds. The halls are swept by the civilian policemen, who also scrub periodically the floors of both rooms and halls. By Regulations, cadets are not allowed valets, nor are they permitted to own an automobile, horse, or dog.

The cadets are in uniform, of course, at all times. Every detail of their clothing is prescribed. The collars, for example, must project above the coat collar just one eighth of an inch, and a like display of cuff is required. Only certain kinds of shoes may be worn, and certain kinds of gloves both for drills and hops. Although not prescribed by Regulations, a custom of long standing among the cadets prohibits the plebes from wearing their overcoats with the end of the capes thrown back over the shoulder, nor may they wear lisle thread gloves to chapel, but must content themselves with the thick, coarse Berlin gun glove. The lowered capes of the plebes give them an air of humility alongside of the upper-classmen, and the gun gloves accentuate the crudity of the poor plebe’s military appearance.

The day is filled with duties. From the return of the Battalion from breakfast until 8:00 A.M., is a study period. From 8:00 A.M. until 12:35 P.M., the different classes attend recitations in the prescribed courses, or perhaps have instruction in gymnastic exercises or in riding. Dinner comes at 12:40 P.M., after which recitations are held until 3:50 P.M. In the fall and spring drills commence at 4:00 P.M., followed by parade at 5:30 P.M., and retreat and supper at 6:30 P.M.

Cadets do not proceed individually to their classrooms, but are formed in the area of barracks in sections, under the command of a section marcher, who, after reporting to the officer of the day any absentees, marches his men to their section rooms.

In like manner there is a meal formation. The Battalions are formed in front of barracks and marched by the two senior captains to the Mess Hall. Just as much observance to step, alignment, and bearing is required as though marching to parade.

Upon entering the hall, “at ease” is commanded, whereupon the cadets proceed quietly to their places at table and remain standing back of their chairs until the cadet captain commands: “A Co., take seats.” The food is always ready so there is no delay. Thirty minutes are allowed for breakfast and supper, and forty for dinner.

As soon as seated, cadets begin to talk and laugh. The only restriction upon them is that they must conduct themselves at mess like young gentlemen. No throwing of food or waste is tolerated. One first-classman, known as the table commandant, is in charge of each table and is held responsible for all breaches of regulations upon the part of the cadets thereat.

Civilian waiters bring the food from the kitchen and place it upon the table. The cadets are then required to help themselves. Custom makes the three or four plebes at each table perform the most onerous duties. One plebe, known as the “water corporal” pours the water and milk. Another, the “meat corporal,” carves the “bone,” and another, the “gunner,” pours the coffee, and exercises a general supervision over the supply. Their duties keep them very busy, for the upper-classmen constantly demand food.

The life at the Mess Hall is replete with customs, and the vocabulary of the cadets filled with terms unintelligible to the uninitiated. Some of their customs would not be approved in polite society but would be, perhaps, by modern efficiency. If, for example, a man at the end of the table wishes more water or milk, bang! goes his glass on the table preliminary to its flight through the air to the outstretched nervous hands of the “water corporal.” The plebe eats in spasms, so to speak, one eye on his food, and the other on the alert for aËrial glasses.

“How’s the cow?” yells an upper-classman, meaning how much milk is in the pitcher.

“Almost dry, sir!” replies the plebe.

“Milk her again!” is commanded as the glass comes speeding down.

Every morning the “gunner” who sits at the end of the table, in capacity of hostess, so to speak, “sounds off” the number of days until June. Instead of grace, he commences the meal, “282 days until June, sir!” On the 300th, 200th, 100th day before June, the plebes write speeches in which they are allowed great latitude in satirizing the upper-classmen. The yearling who has been particularly annoying during the year sees all of his faults held up to ridicule, but he must swallow his medicine at the hands of the plebe.

It is a real treat to see the men at mess. No melancholy stillness pervades the Mess Hall. One can hardly hear himself in the din of rattling dishes, knives, forks, the peals of laughter, the roar of eight hundred voices all talking at once, punctuated by the plebes repeatedly shrieking, “Bread! please!” or whatever they want. In beholding them, one realizes vividly the meaning of the expression “teeming with life.”

Occasionally, orders are read in the Mess Hall by the Adjutant. It would seem impossible to get the attention of the cadets, but when he commands:

“BÁt-tÁl-yÓn ... at-ten-tion!” the roar almost instantly subsides, like a balloon suddenly pierced. A wave of silence engulfs the hall, accentuated at times by the fall of a fork or spoon on the tiled floor. Quietly the cadets sit, as the Adjutant reads his order, on “skins” (delinquencies). There are no soft notes in his tone. They are all fortissimo and run together until they become “monotonous,” like the hum of a factory. Some mischievous cadet, unable to bear the enforced inactivity, enlivens a small group around him by stealthily firing a bread ball at an unobserving neighbor.

Each cadet has a silver napkin ring with his name and class inscribed thereon. At graduation all of the rings are melted into a loving cup which is given to the member of the class who has the first son. This child is known as the “Class boy.”

Just before the conclusion of the meal the first captain makes an inspection, calls the Mess Hall to attention, and commands: “1st Battalion, rise.” The cadets file out quietly, form in front of the Mess Hall, and return to their barracks.

The rooms are subjected to a continual series of inspections. First, there is a rather superficial inspection by the subdivision inspectors, cadets of the First Class, twenty minutes after reveille. They give the rooms a coup d’oeil chiefly to see that the floors have been swept and the bedding folded and piled. During the forenoon, the Tactical officer in charge of the company makes a careful survey of everything. This is known as the “Tac” inspection, and may occur any time from 8:00 A.M. to 11:00 A.M. Until the “Tac” makes his morning visit the cadets are required to wear their uniforms buttoned. The majority of the cadets sit around in their sweater coats until they hear the authoritative knock of the “Tac” on the doors of the first-floor rooms. They then quickly don their blouses until after he leaves, when sweaters are again brought forth. This time is a study period and it is almost impossible to concentrate on problems that make you feel like tearing your hair, when dressed in a tight-fitting uniform.

When roommates attend morning recitations at different periods, the first-hour men are notified of the inspection by their comrades who leave the mirror turned to the wall as a signal, or, sometimes, just a sign—“He has.” Once a Tactical officer with a sense of humor traced in the dust across the face of a cadet’s mirror, during his absence, “He has.”

Upon the return from first-hour recitations the divisions ring with shouts, “Has he?” “Has he?” mingled with the cries to the plebe mail carrier of, “Mr. Dumbguard, has the mail?”

After dinner the officer of the day inspects to see that the cadets are not visiting and that the rooms are in order. During the evening study periods, from about 7:30 to 9:30 P.M., the cadet sentinels posted in the halls of barracks inspect three times. They open the doors of each room, inquiring, “All right, sir?” whereupon the occupants reply, “All right, sir!” or “Cadet Ducrot is absent.” The reply “All right” signifies that all occupants are present, or if any are absent that their absence is authorized. Any cadet who intentionally makes an incorrect report is dismissed from the Academy.

The day ends, as it begins, with an inspection of the subdivision inspectors. At the three taps of the drum in the Area, cries of “Lights out!” fill the air. The buildings are plunged into darkness except for a dim hall light, and the inspectors, armed with bull’s-eye lanterns, flit through the halls like nervous fireflies. Each door is hurriedly opened; a beam of light seeks first one bed then the next, while the dark form on the threshold calls out sharply, “All in?” “All in, sir!” replies the room orderly from the depths of the alcove. Bang! goes the door and the shadow disappears. From all the divisions the fireflies swarm into the Area and align themselves like a string of shining beads in front of the officer of the day to whom they report.

For all breaches of regulations the cadets are reported, “skinned” in their parlance. The list of delinquencies is read out at retreat, and the next morning the cadet must submit a written explanation of the offense. The majority of the reports are for minor offenses, such as lates, absences, inattention, buttons off uniform, and so on. Ordinarily, no explanation for these offenses is requested, although the cadet has a right to offer one if he so desires. The more serious offenses, however, must be explained.

In their explanations cadets must confine their statements to plain facts. No criticism or argumentation is allowed. Occasionally some wit transcends the limit and amuses himself for the moment at the expense of his conduct grade. Once a report was entered against a cadet for having worn his night-shirt to the Drawing Academy. It seems that, lacking a plain white shirt, he hastily donned a night-shirt, stuffing the flowing tails in his trousers. He was betrayed, however, by the blue embroidery down the front. An instructor, seeing the queer garment, reported the cadet. Since he had been obliged to attend a number of lectures in drawing, at which he invariably fell asleep, he submitted the following facetious explanation to the Commandant of Cadets:

Sir:

In explanation of the report “wearing a night-shirt to the Drawing Academy on the 10th inst.” I have the honor to state that I heard that there was to be a lecture in drawing; consequently, I wore my night-shirt.

I need not add that he walked a number of punishment tours for his wit.

The punishments that may be awarded a cadet are:

Punishment tours are of one-hour duration, during which time the cadet walks an assigned beat. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons the Area is filled with cadets walking to and fro, like pendulums, each tracing in the gravel a little path. They resemble in their animation the goings and comings of a colony of ants. No cadet enjoys walking tours. It is viewed as a particularly disagreeable punishment, much worse than serving a confinement in one’s room, where he may “bone fiction,” chasing away the gloom of imprisonment with some interesting book. In the winter months the chill and snow fill their thoughts and hearts as they pace to and fro, beating their hands together for warmth. But it is in the autumn and spring when the athletic contests with outside teams take place that the misery of walking tours becomes terribly acute. The cheering of the fortunate cadets witnessing the games is like some magnet which draws and draws. The longing must be resisted and stifled while they continue upon their monotonous walk, chained to an inexorable task.

The work demanded of a cadet is hard, but without the restrictions, obstacles, the petty annoyances, the young plebe that comes to West Point so plastic and yielding would never grow and develop. At first the limitations that surround him baffle and bewilder him for a time, but as the days pass by and he begins to be imbued with the spirit of the Corps, and to feel the traditions and atmosphere of West Point, he insensibly rises superior to every annoying restriction. He may indulge in occasional grumbling and ill-humor but what of that? He knows now that a reason exists for every obstacle, and he sees in the hardships a way that leads to the development of his higher self. His moral force is gradually crystallized and he gains the spirit of willingness to do his duty toward the Academy and his little bit in keeping strong the spirit of West Point.

The main idea of West Point after all is to develop the mind and character of the cadet, to instill into him the proper ideas of discipline. It does not aim for a discipline where a man’s spirit or will is broken, so that he obeys through fear, but a discipline of the soul, wherein a cadet performs his duty for the deed’s sake. Without this high moral spirit, no army can be successful, despite the most brilliant galaxy of officers.