Oft in the stilly night,
By yellow candle-light,
With finger in the sand
We mapped and planned.

"This is the Turkish well,
That's where the Captain fell,
There's the great Salt Lake bed,
Here's where the Munsters led."

Primitive man arose,
With prehistoric pose,
Like Dug-out Men of old,
By signs our thoughts were told.

I have slept and lived in every kind of camp and bivouac. I have dug
and helped to dig dug-outs. I have lain full length in the dry, dead
grass "under the wide and starry sky." I have crept behind a ledge of
rock, and gone to sleep with the ants crawling over me. I have slept
with a pair of boots for a pillow. I have lived and snoozed in the
dried-up bed of a mountain torrent for weeks. A ground-sheet tied to a
bough has been my bedroom. I have slumbered curled in a coil of rope
on the deck of a cattle-boat, in an ambulance wagon, on a stretcher,
in farmhouse barns and under hedges and haystacks. I have slept in the
sand by the blue Mediterranean Sea, with the crickets and grasshoppers
"zipping" and "zinging" all night long.

But our dug-out nights on the edge of the bay at Buccaneer Bivouac