At morning and evening roll-call argument was warmest. No linguist existed, sufficiently facile to scan that list intelligibly. Sprinkled among remembered English names were pitfalls of Italian, Russian, Spanish, Lithuanian, German, even Chinese.
“Krag—a—co—poul—o—wicz, G."
The officer, calling the roll, would look up, expecting the response his triumph deserved. A protest would come, as likely as not in fluent lower New York accents:
"Do yuh mean me? That ain't the way tuh say my name. Me own mother wouldn't recernize it."
"Silence! Simply answer, 'here.’"
In a tone of deep disgust:
"Then I ain't here. That's all. I ain't here."
An appreciative laugh would ripple down the ranks. Men learned to be officers and non-commissioned officers in those days.
Afterwards the citizen soldiers would get their mess kits, and, sitting on burned stumps or Thompson-Starret rubbish, would eat a palatable meal. For the food was coming from somewheres, and the gear to dispose of it. We had noticed that Walters, Payne, and Savage were up to something. During long hours they sat in Regimental Headquarters studying documents. Then they filled out many forms, and sample clothing and equipment straggled into the barracks. This meant a new phase, and now, as we labelled, we equipped. We became tailors, hatters, booters. We would begin the night's work by choosing as comfortable a place as possible in the mess hall with a pile of pink qualification cards before us. The queue of awkward and pallid youths would form.
"Name?"
It would flow out in various accents. More frequently than not it would demand painstaking spelling. Education, occupation, average wages, capacity for lead-
