We were marched over to one of the infantry barracks on the edge of the big parade grounds and there we found our rifles; I mean ours for the day only, because there are hardly enough in camp to equip us all yet and we have to take turns using them. In the same way there is only one field piece to each artillery company, but that doesn’t seem to worry the artillery men much. They are doing some real drilling over on the other side of the camp. I was surprised to discover a company at work digging trenches, another company practising throwing hand grenades, with stones representing the deadly Mill’s bombs, still another group constructing parapets of sand bags, and working out machine gun emplacements, and in the distance artillery companies hovering about a sleek looking gun, learning the complicated parts and where and how the animals are served. Krags, instead of Springfields, are the rifles available for drilling purposes here, and for the first hour this morning we devoted our time to learning the floor plan of the thing. I was getting along famously until Fat interrupted my investigations with the muzzle of his weapon. Soon after that we started drilling. And I think it is to our credit that before noon we had mastered all the movements and that our pieces snapped up to position with real vigour. “Let me hear them hands slap them pieces,” said the Sergeant; then “Ri—sholler—harms! One-two-three-four! Pep, that’s it, pep an’ snap. Slap ’em hard. Ordah—harms! One-two-three! _Done_ drop ’em—_done_ slam ’em down. Nex’ man slams ’em gits kitchen p’lice.” So we drilled until our arms ached, and rifles that weighed about eight pounds at the beginning of the drill seemed to have increased to fifty pounds, and felt as long as telephone poles. Perhaps we weren’t glad when our First Lieutenant put a stop to the punishment and started us in the general direction of the mess hall. And we had beef stew for dinner; beef stew with rich brown gravy, such as our old biscuit shooter alone can make. But after mess we were back at it again. Only this time it was bayonet practice, but not of the variety pictured in most magazines. We haven’t reached the stage of charging trenches and swinging bundles of sticks. Such advanced work comes later. Bayonets are awkward, ugly things, and I could not help being grateful that Fat took it into his head to poke me in the mouth with his rifle this morning instead of this afternoon. If he had waited until after mess he wouldn’t have split my lip; he would have cut my head off. When I saw him with bayonet fixed I gave him a wide radius of action. Indeed I avoided him as if he were a plague.