The Maccabaean

never been bugled or whistled out of bed; if he has known an alarm-clock, he has also known how to snuggle to just for one minute more after it has sounded. He has never awakened in the company of two hundred others, and rushed through his dressing (with the usual desperate fumbling at the complicated puttees) lest the reveille (pronounced to rhyme with rebbele) should find him without his O. D. shirt on. He has never known what it was to have every minute of his working-day mapped out for him, so that all he need do is listen for the voice of the officer and obey swiftly. His mind is quiescent, or, at best, receptive. It has nothing on which to feed its active appetite.

But they are beginning to more than like it. "Do you know," one Jewish soldier said, "I come back after a two-day furlough utterly exhausted. It is a relief to get back to camp life. You can have a rest here." And in one sense, camp life is the quietest imaginable. The noise and the shouting, the bugling and whistling—these are superficial. Deep down the life is a silent one. There is no clash, no strain. All things are ordered and appointed. Commands are given and obeyed. The life is rhythmic and even-flowing. There is no contention, and no overlapping.

But it is more difficult for the individualistic Jew to swing into this life than for anyone else. It is not a question of willingness, for the Jewish boys are here, as elsewhere, eager to make good. It is a question of mental constitution. There is, inherently, something absurd in the picture of two hundred men standing in a straight line, or performing complicated evolutions: "Squad right! Squads left! Right front into line! On left into line." "What am I?" asked Strauss, indignantly, the first week. "A performing animal? Stand in a straight line! For what do I need it? Give me a gun and I will shoot! But what for a trick is this? Can't I shoot Germans without it?" But practice is more convincing than argument. There is an irresistible artistic appeal in a military movement smartly carried out. You have only to march for ten minutes with a column of squads, and you feel the desire to keep in step. It is fascinating—hypnotizing—to watch the easy swaying of the shoulders in front of you. You doze into the movement, you feel as if you wanted the marching to continue forever.

And this curious hypnotic effect appeals more than anything else to the Jewish boys. It was to this military spirit that the Jewish soldier paid unconscious tribute when he spoke of the restfulness of camp life, for in a large sense, life here becomes a rhythmic military march, executed in step.

There is not a man here who is not looking healthier than when he arrived, and this despite the difficulty many of our boys experienced in habituating themselves to goyish food. No more of the complicated and spicy Jewish dishes; just vast, wholesome meals of hash, roast beef, sausages, cabbage, and occasional steaks, tea or coffee with every meal. They still long for Jewish macholim, and in between meals, on drill intervals, they produce from under their bunks slabs of rosiver bread, slices of herring, stuffed olives, cold chicken, and so on. Salami is every Jewish soldier's standby. Hardly one of us but keeps a coil of it in his locker. At ten-thirty or so, between calisthenics and infantry drill, I lie on my bunk and, closing my eyes, inhale the air and think myself at a table in the Hebrew National.

The day's routine is gradually working itself into our consciousness, and becoming instinctive with us—as instinctive as breakfast and sleep. Reveille sounds at 6 A. M. At 6.15 the first whistle blows and we assemble outside the barracks for roll-call. Dismissed, we rush

to the latrines for a wash, and then line up, mess-kit in hand, for breakfast. After breakfast every man washes his metal dishes in the hot-water pails outside the barrack, first throwing all waste food into the incinerator. Every man then returns to his bunk, folds back the mattress, lays the blankets and poncho on top, and makes his part of the barrack neat. The assembly for drill sounds at 7.30, and for four hours, with frequent ten minute intervals, we drill, go through calisthenic exercises, or listen to military lectures. The recall sounds at 11.30, and we are free till 12 o'clock, when the whistle blows for dinner. Afternoon drills last from 1 to 4.30 or 5, and are similar to the morning drills.

Sometimes a hike is substituted for drills, and we cover perhaps ten miles between meals. We learn then the value of the bulky "field shoes" which we are made to wear—clumsy, hob-nailed shoe-receptacles perhaps two sizes larger than you are accustomed to. Sometimes the hike is made more instructive by making the company the advance guard of a battalion. A support is flung out beyond the company, then, in front of that, the advance party reconnoitres, with its "points" sprayed out far beyond. "Connecting files" link up the detachments, and all march in silence, "in the presence of the enemy."

"Retreat" sounds at 5.30. It is one of the most impressive ceremonies I have ever witnessed, in synagogue or cathedral, or the open air. It is performed at twilight, and gathers impressiveness not only from the circumstance of its performance, but from the absence of any individual priest. No prayer is said, no responses are expected. The company is drawn up in front of the barrack, every man and officer not on special duty attends. Along the line of the barrack every company may be seen waiting—in silence. From Division Tower a long blast of the bugle is heard—faint and far away. The regimental bugler blows the first notes of retreat. They ring clearly across the parade ground. Along the whole line the command passes: "Company: Parade Rest." There is a far flash of white hands, clasped in front. Through the twilight "retreat" sounds. In between the ringing notes of the bugler, may be heard the distant notes of other regiments. The bugle dies down. The captain springs to attention and faces the company. "Company, attention." Again a far flash of white hands, and a clash of heels. The bugler is heard again, short blasts dying down—"To the Colors." The captain faces toward Division Tower, and stands at the salute. The bugle ceases, and the captain, facing the men, commands: "First sergeant, dismiss the company."

The ceremony is brief; no words are uttered, save a few short words of command. And yet no man leaves retreat without a strange feeling of sanctification.

But stranger than retreat is taps. Few men ever hear taps, for it is sounded at eleven o'clock, when most are fast asleep. From somewhere bugle-notes are heard: notes which seem to be not blown from human lips, but rather born in the night of themselves. The window panes glimmer dull blue far along the barracks. Here and there a star twinkles. No lights, no voices, only the sound of breathing, and the bugle-notes, fairy like, distinct, infinitely sorrowful. I hear the notes, and do not understand them; I only feel a strange exaltation. The walls disolve, and the whole camp lies open to the sky; rows and rows of men in a dusky field, their guns slung up at their heads—asleep and helpless now, awaiting the advent of a dreadful dawn of thunder. The notes play on, die down slowly and then cease.

MAURICE SAMUEL, Camp Upton, L. I. Company F, 307th Infantry,