Uncle Sam's Boys as Sergeants: or, Handling Their First Real Commands

"March? At six in the morning?" gasped Algy Ferrers, his despair increasing by leaps and bounds. "Man alive, I wouldn't feel like crawling – at that time!"

"The term has confused you," replied Prescott. "It's the musician of the guard – the bugler – who plays the march. It's a strain that is played, the first note beginning just as the reveille gun is fired, at the minute of six in the morning. Then, just five minutes later reveille itself is blown."

"All that racket will wake me up mornings," complained Algy sadly.

"It ought to, for it's an officer's business to be up by that time."

"Good heavens!" groaned Algy. "Say, 'pon my word, I'll hate to have any soldiers see me when I'm looking as seedy as I'll look at that time of the day."

"You won't see them immediately," Prescott replied.

"Don't I have to go to my men as soon as I'm up?"

"No; officers don't go down to barracks to see their men rise. Now, listen. Reveille sounds at 6.05, with assembly and roll-call right afterward. There's a very brief athletic drill, followed by recall from the drill at 6.15 o'clock. At 6.20 mess call for breakfast is sounded. Right after breakfast comes police of quarters and premises. 'Police' is the Army term for cleaning up and making everything tidy. Then, just at 7 o'clock the bugler of the guard sounds sick call. The first sergeant of each company makes up the sick report, and a corporal marches the men out who need the doctor – the 'rain-maker,' we call him in the Army. Now, with all that happens up to this time the non-commissioned officers – sergeants and corporals – have to do."

"Then I can sleep a little later, can't I?" proposed Lieutenant Ferrers hopefully.

"If you do you'll be sure to get yourself in a scrape. You'll be coming out of your quarters unshaven, or with your uniform put on too hastily. Colonel North is a true Tartar with any officer who doesn't start the day looking like bandbox goods. And, my dear fellow, it's no greater hardship for you to be up early than it is for the enlisted man. Now, at 7.10 in the morning comes first call to drill. Drill assembly goes at 7.20."

"Do I have to be there?"

"You do, unless excused for some very grave reason. Recall from drill sounds at 8.20."

"That means that drill is over, then?" sighed Algy questioningly.

"Yes. Then, at 8.30, is fatigue call."

"I shall be properly fatigued by that time, no doubt," confessed Algy wretchedly.

"You'll soon understand what 'fatigue' is in the Army," smiled Lieutenant Prescott. "It's more work, but work that is done without arms."

"Without arms? With the feet, then?"

Lieutenant Prescott bit his lip, but answered:

"By arms this time I mean weapons. First call to guard mounting comes at 8.50, and guard mounting assembly at 9. At 10 another drill begins; at 11 the recall sounds, with recall from fatigue at 11.30. Mess call for enlisted men is at noon, and 1 p. m. fatigue call. Drill call goes again at 1.50, with drill assembly at 2 o'clock. The time spent at these drills varies according to the nature of the work and the orders. Recall from fatigue sounds at 5 o'clock. Parade assembly is at 5.30 at this time of the year, with retreat and evening gun-fire at 6.10. Then comes mess call to supper. With that ends, usually, the working day of the enlisted man. Tattoo sounds at 9 in the evening, with call to quarters at 10.45, and taps, or lights out, at 11 p. m. Except when on guard or special duty you're not likely to have to be with your men much after retreat."

"Oh, I should hope not," exclaimed Algy Ferrers fervently. "By supper time I can see myself a nervous wreck."

"Oh, you'll get used to it," laughed Prescott. "The rest of us all had to."

"And at all of those beastly things and jobs you enumerated, Prescott, I've got to be present and actually do a lot of work?"

"A big lot of work, you'll find."

"And yet they call being an officer in the Army a gentleman's life."

"Yes," replied Prescott, his eyes opening rather wide. "Don't you consider that one may be a gentleman and yet be industrious?"

"Oh, I reckon so," sighed Algy Ferrers. "But it all seems a beastly grind."

"Then how did your ever come to think of going into the Army?"

"I didn't," almost flared up Algy. "It was the guv'nor. He forced me into it. Said he'd cut my allowance off altogether, and leave me out of his will if I didn't get to work. And he chose the Army for me, and put the whole thing through. Wasn't it beastly of the guv'nor?"

"I'm not so sure that it was," smiled Lieutenant Prescott. "Of course it was different with me. My father worked, and had to, or starve. It was the same with me, which may be why I can look upon the idea of a lot of work without feeling insulted by fate. But I reckon, Ferrers, that no man is worth his salt in the world unless he does work."

This was the day after Algy's arrival. Colonel North and Major Silsbee had not yet put the new young officer actually at work. They had allowed him this time of grace to get settled in his new quarters, and to talk over his new duties with young Prescott.

"I can never remember all that long list of things you told me, dear fellow," complained Algy. "Won't you do me a great, big favor?"

"What?"

"Write down for me that – er – time table you laid down for me."

"No." Lieutenant Prescott's tone was almost abrupt. "I'll repeat it to you, Ferrers, and you can write it down for yourself. Get a pencil and paper."

"Give me just time for a cigarette before I take up such exhausting literary work," begged Algy, reaching for his gold cigarette case. "Have one, dear fellow?"

"Thank you, Ferrers. I don't smoke."

"Then what do you do with your time?"

"Work!"

"What beastly old rot the Army is!" murmured Algy, lying back in his easy chair and blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

Rap-tap! sounded at the door.

"Come in," called Algy. It was Lieutenant Holmes who entered.

"Howdy-do, Ferrers?" he hailed the new officer. "I heard Prescott was here and came to find him. You'll pardon me, won't you?"

"Nothing to pardon," murmured Algy.

"Old ramrod," began Lieutenant Holmes, turning to his chum and addressing him by the old West Point nickname, "I came to see you about your pet. He seems to be in increasing trouble."

"Who's my pet!" demanded Prescott in surprise.

"Why, Corporal Overton, of your company."

"Corporal Overton is not my pet, and you'll greatly oblige me by not referring to him again in that fashion, Holmesy," returned the young lieutenant almost stiffly. "Corporal Overton is a mighty fine young soldier, and a good soldier never needs to be his officer's pet; he can stand on his own merits. But what's the trouble with Overton? Is he still absurdly suspected of relieving that simpleton Green of his money?"

"Yes; there's a strong drift of suspicion that way among the men of B Company."

"The idiots!" muttered Prescott impatiently.

"One of my sergeants has just been telling me about Overton's present standing in the company. B Company men have always liked Overton. In fact, he has been well liked all through the battalion, but just now many of the men don't feel sure about the young fellow," continued Lieutenant Holmes. "Not a man will admit that the case is proved, but a good many of them don't like the looks of things. Especially are the men disturbed by the fact of that revolver being in Corporal Overton's bed, and the fact of his being awake and appearing nervous when the alarm was given."