found that out last night.

Then, after the Sergeant showed us where we bunked and where we could expect to find something to eat about supper time, every one left us severely alone, which was mostly what we wanted, because we all had a lot on our mind between homesickness and that blessed “needle.” But there was some work to do, such as stuffing mattresses with hay, sweeping out the barracks and similar occupations until bed time.

A baby blue comforter wrapped about him.

Some one, who had evidently heard some weird tales about the punishment meted out to those who overslept at camp, brought an alarm clock along with him, and the blooming thing went off at 4 A.M. Of course we got up, switched the lights on over head, and proceeded to get dressed with that resigned now-what-are-you-going-to-do-with-us air.

But dressing was interrupted by a string of the most beautiful cusses I ever heard, coming downstairs just in advance of a mighty mad looking Sergeant:

“Who in —— tarnation bow-wows has got that —— alarm clock? Pitch it out the —— window, and git back to bed.”

It went and we went. But that’s as far as we could go. Thoughts of the “needle” and other forms of torture which we were to face in a few short hours kept most of us awake until a quarter after five, when every officer in camp began to blow letter-carrier whistles. Then we all got up and were introduced to some physical exercises guaranteed to stretch every muscle in our makeup. I took a cold shower bath after mine, and was the object of interest of the entire barracks. Great stuff (I mean the shower).

Most of us might have been tolerably happy after that, if it hadn’t been for the fact that every man in uniform made some evil suggestion about the “needle.” And when they saw us all, white and corpsey looking and more or less unsteady on our legs, line up in front of the barracks and march off under our Second Lieutenant, the groans and sorry faces they feigned were enough to make one’s blood run cold. And then we got the “needle.”

An alarm clock went off at 4 A.M.

I, for one, was disappointed, and so were most of the rest of us. But there were a few who didn’t give themselves a chance to be disappointed. They promptly fainted: not because of the injection but because of the state of their nerves which they all admitted afterward. There were a few things about the examination calculated to scare a man to death such as the question: “In case you are shot and killed to whom do you wish six months’ pay to be sent?” Many of us stammered a bit before answering.

Jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger

After that we stripped, lined up and started on our way. Then measured, marked and finger-printed, we arrived before a physician who stamped a quarter section under the left shoulder blade with a sponge covered with iodine, while another one scratched the skin on our upper arm to mark the acreage to be covered by a vaccination. We moved on to two more physicians, and while one dug a hunk out of our arm and inserted vaccine in place of the skin removed, the other man, with a villainously long hypodermic, jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger. And now, by George, if any one else around here tries to kid me into worrying about anything at all, I’m going to talk back proper. They sure had me scared stiff and I’ll admit it. Why, hang it, I would rather have had typhoid than face that “needle” before I really knew what it amounted to. But here I am, with germs variously estimated at from 15,000 to 250,000 circulating around inside of me, due to said “needle,” and aside from a little wooziness in the head, and a sore shoulder, I’m quite contented and ready to turn in. Good-night.

Saturday:

The serum injections of yesterday produced some queer, and in one case unfortunate, results. Last night after taps were sounded and lights were out, I lay awake a long time in spite of the fact I was very tired.

Couldn’t understand it, and my arm and back were as sore as could be. Hour after hour wore on, and I couldn’t get to sleep. Some did, however, and I had a regular frog’s chorus of snores to keep me company. I became a veritable specialist in snores and wheezes and grunts. Every time I heard a new variety I formed mental pictures of the men who probably made them.

Then the chorus was interrupted by some one not far from me who called out mournfully: “Oh, my back, my back! The needle!” Then in sharper tones: “Count off. 1-2-3-4.” I wondered what horrors his overwrought nerves were causing him to dream of.

But when I did get to sleep I slept soundly, certainly, for they told me this morning that one chap had become seriously ill, and had been carried from the barracks to an ambulance and whisked away to the hospital sometime during the small hours of the morning. It seems that he had an excess of germs circulating around inside of him, due to the fact that he did not know enough to move on after the doctor had given him the first injection, and the physician, looking only for the nearest iodine spot, shot him twice in the same place.

However, I am reasonably certain I’ll sleep to-night all right, for I’ve been pulling stumps all day, or rather during the time I wasn’t learning to recognize my right foot from my left, and a few other things that every man thinks he knows until some one takes the pains to expose his ignorance. Oh, I have the qualities of a really capable soldier in me—if some one can find them. As an infantryman I’m a much better stump puller. I proved that this afternoon. I have a beautiful double handful of blisters, not to mention a ruined suit of clothes and hopeless shoes, to my credit in this war of exterminating the Hun. I hope we get uniforms soon, because if we don’t, I’ll be going about clad in my old rose comforter and some summer underclothes.

Stump pulling is rough on clothes, but it certainly is an appetite builder. I’ve discovered already that it is good policy to be among the first on line with a mess kit, then if you can bolt your beef a-la-mode fast enough, and get outside and wash up your kit, you stand a good chance of joining the last of the line, thereby getting a second helping. Indeed, several fellows have it down to such a science already, that they get three helpings before the cook begins to say things.

The barracks is beginning to look picturesque. The atmosphere of a western mining camp, arranged for stage purposes, prevails. The Italians, swarthy-faced, heavy-featured fellows, for the most part, gather in little groups, smoke villainous pipes and play cards incessantly, whenever they are allowed much time in the barracks. Our Semitic friends linger in the