Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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THE QUIVER 5 T his work was very interesting,, but the coming ‘'hike” was the most important thing to us. After my company finished its work on the range, it began to prepare for the “hike,” which is the big event of every military camp. The day before the start, all articles that would not be needed on the march were packed into suitcases and stored in the supply lent. Lanterns and mattresses were “turned in” by the squad leaders, and all was in readiness for the final event. At nine o’clock in the morning, according to schedule, we set out. After a short march of about seven miles, we reached our first camping-place about noon. The first order given was to pitch shelter-tents. I hese are called dog-tents and-are set up by two men, who are called “bunkies.” My “bunkie” was very lazy, so I had to disregard my natural inclinations and do my best to act lazy, in order to be in harmony with him. Then came that first military meal! Each oue marched up to a roW of kettles, with his tin plate and cover, knife, fork, and spoon, while the “regulars” on duty served the menu. Incidentally my proverbial “peck of dirt” was served to me in instalments in these banquets. The afternoon was spent in getting rid of some of the exterior dirt, and then came supper, and more interior dirt. There was no distinction between breakfast, dinner, and supper, each being known as “mess.” At night, after mess, the battalion commander explained the day’s work and gave the general program for the next day. Then nothing was heard except the heavy snoring of the tired men. The next thing I heard was the bugle announcing reveille. Our packs were made up, we messed, and then we started out on the march. During the next six days we marched about forty-five miles over ah kinds of ground, and had a fair taste of a soldier’s life. The last night at Plattsburg was a lively one. No one thought of refraining longer from candy, pie, and ice cream. Who cared if he didn’t get much sleep? It was the last night in Nature’s back yard. Having had time to consider Plattsburg. I have changed my first opinion in regard to its usefulness. Although Plattsburg offers little chance for enjoyment, it gives just the training needed for one who is at least normal in physical and mental ability; and, best of all, it gives a striking example of the “horrors of war,” even without bullets. AVERY B. DAVIS, ’17.

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4 THE Ql’lVKR A “ROOKIE” AT PLATTSBURG £3' Cn the night of the Fourth of July, 1916, three other Woonsocket Invs and I, with other Rhode Island boys, were on a special train bound for the summer camp at Plattsburg, New York. After an uneventful trip, we arrived at the camp at about one o’clock on the fifth. All were immediately assigned to companies and told to report to our respective captains, after which I secured my equipment from the supply sergeant. He was a gruff man, who discovered, after a short dialogue with me, that I was a very poor soldier, and promptly informed me of the fact. From this experience. I formed the impression that Plattsburg would be more work than play, and 1. found later that I was right. The next day we were given three hours, of drill in the morning and two in the afternoon, all on close order work, which is the marching formation. After a week of this drill, we took our first lesson in open-order formation, which is used in actual skirmish. This proved to be a little more interesting than the other. For about a week we drilled on these skirmish formations in the morning and took short marches in the afternoon, so, as to get into the best possible physical condition. It surely was no easy matter to fight under the hot sun, crossing fields at a trot, fording brooks knee-d ep, and strugglihg through underbrush waist-high. I cheered myself by thinking of the poor soldiers on the hot sands of Mexico. Then I became more of an optimist. The third week of camp brought a temporary pause in the strenuous work, since it was devoted to target practice. Although each man fired only ten shots a day, all in about eight minutes, everyone was required to stay on the range from about half-past six to half-past eleven in the morning, and half-past twelve to six in the afternoon.

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G THE QUIVER THE SYCAMORE i The old homestead was bathed in the mellow glow of the afternoon sun. The day had been warm, and there were few signs of life. One could imagine that within it was cool, but outside the heat was still oppressive. Presently there came the sound of hoof beats. A horseman was approaching. Soon lie had entered the driveway leading to the house. Both horse and rider showed signs of extreme fatigue. In front of the homestead, the man checked his horse and dismounted, while a servant came hurrying out to see what was desired. The answer was brief. “I want water for myself and my horse.” Conducting the stranger to a well near by, the servant bade him drink. The thirst of man and beast was soon quenched by the clear, cool water. As he was about to remount, the stranger suddenly turned and said, “My whip! Ah, now I remember. I dropped it far back.” ‘“Here is just the thing for a whip,” quickly replied the servant. Already he had taken a sharp knife from his pocket, and was about to cut a slender sapling, which grew near the well. “Stop!” commanded the stranger. “That sapling will grow into a wonderful tree. Leave it untouched. It was meant to become more than a horseman’s whip.” Saying this, much to the astonishment of the servant, the man leaped upon his horse and disappeared in a cloud of dust. This happened many, many years ago. The prophecy of the strange horseman has come true. The sapling is now a wonderful sycamore tree, massive in proportions, towering high above other trees, stretching its great, tapering branches to the sky. For over a hundred jears it has stood firmly in its place near the well at the side of our house. Every spring without fail, it sends out bright green shoots, and welcomes the home-coming birds. Woodpeckers, robins, bluebirds, blackbirds, orioles, and many others, all visit its branches. In the summer, many a person has been thankful for the cool, refreshing shade of the sycamore tree. There comes a transformation in the fall. With few exceptions the withered leaves cling to the boughs. The tree is hung with little brown balls, that swing and dangle in the breeze. Great strips of bark peel off, leaving queerly shaped, light blotches. The sycamore presents a peculiar appearance, for each branch resembles a gigantic snake that has just shed its skin.