How I used to hate that camp band, when it played at reveille, I cursed
it in full BLAST because it would wake me suddenly when I seemed to
have only just lain down, and reviled it when it played softly because
I would not hear it and some of the other boys would wake me only when
they were fully dressed; and the last to fall in at roll-call were
picked for cook's fatigue--peeling spuds and cleaning dixies! How I
loathed those dixies! The more grease you got on your hands and
clothes the more appeared to be left in the dixie! The outside was
sooty, the inside was greasy, and after I had done my best, the
sergeant cook would make remarks about my ancestors which had nothing
to do with the question, and I could not resent them lest I be detailed
for a whole week of infernal dixie-cleaning. Anyway, all his ancestors
had ever dared to do in the presence of mine was to touch their
forelock.

In those first weeks I think I would gladly have murdered every
sergeant. It was "Number 10, hold your head up!" "Put your heels
together!" or a sarcastic remark as to whether I knew what a button was
for, when I happened to miss doing one up in my flurry to dress in
time, so that I would not be at the bottom of the line and picked for
fatigue.

It is not often realized what a purgatory the educated, independent man
who enlists as a private has to go through before his spirit is tamed
sufficiently to stand bossing, without resentment, by men socially and
educationally inferior. There was a young officer who called me over
one day and told me to clean his boots. I answered, "Clean them
yourself!" and got three days C. C. (confinement to camp). This same
officer took advantage of his rank on several other occasions and