A few days ago I made some rather boorish and very sarcastic remarks about the possibilities of ever making soldiers out of the men I found myself among. I humbly take it all back and eat mud by way of apology. Khaki, a campaign hat and a shave, together with a certain amount of training in how to stand up straight and step off correctly, have made a vast difference. Why, hang it, I’m mighty proud to belong to this company. Jews, Italians, Poles, etc., all look like fighters; act like fighters; and a lot of them are fighters, too. Why they are soldiers already, and glad of it. Which leads me to state quite modestly the surprising fact that I think I am nearly a soldier, too, and gol-dinged set up about it. Honestly we looked fine this evening. What if there were a few misfits? A process of barter and exchange has already eliminated a great deal of that (save in the cases of Fat and Shrimp, who have gone back to civilian clothes until special uniforms are built for them) and when we lined up and snapped to attention while the band over on Tower Hill played “The Star Spangled Banner” and the old flag came slowly down, we looked like real soldiers every inch. We knew it, too, and I’ll bet there wasn’t a prouder company in the entire camp. [Illustration: Back to civilian clothes until a special uniform is built] Of course, I had to gum up the ceremony. But I guess I’ll pay for it to-morrow. Here’s how it happened: We’ve been drilling, drilling, drilling, all day to-day, drilling with a vengeance, and now we can do squads right and right front into line with as much pep and vigour as a company of Regulars. Our Sergeant said so, which is some admission for the old moss-back to make. Of course, we were tired. I was about ready to drop in my tracks when five o’clock came, which is time for evening parade or retreat; a very impressive ceremony by the way. My hives had been bothering me all day, and every time we were at ease, I got in some likely scratches in itchy places. One beautiful lump developed right under my arm just at five o’clock. Holy smokes, how it did itch! It was just as if something had staked an oil claim right there and wasn’t losing any time about drilling a well. Of course, standing at attention a chap can’t scratch, at least he’s not supposed to—but I did. I tried to show extreme fortitude. I stood and stood and stood, and the darned thing kept boring and boring and boring. Then when the Lieutenants had their backs turned and stood at salute while the flag came down, I took a chance and scratched. That First Lieutenant of ours either has eyes in the back of his head or else the Sergeant is a tattletale. Anyhow, after the ceremonies and before we were dismissed, I was commanded to step out, whereupon I was given a most beautiful call down, after which I said, “thank you, sir” to a detail as kitchen police, for the next week to come starting to-morrow.