# History of the 305th Field Artillery/And Becomes Acquainted With Paper Work

III
AND BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH PAPER WORK
Paper work had now become our perpetual companion. Neither by night nor by day did he leave us lonely. He strutted at mess. He paraded across the drill ground. He sat by one's cot through the troubled watches of the night. It becomes, therefore, necessary to study the creature's habits.
Let us take a fanciful case that everyone can understand, since even in those early days Corn Willy was omnipresent. Let us suppose that a mess officer desires some information about this old friend. His impulse might be to dash off a note like this:
"Capt. Blank. Dear Sir: Having heard that you've made a life study of the subject, it's occurred to me that you might tell me how it is possible to make Corn Willy palatable."
If one didn't care to bother the colonel about details of paper work, Captain Gammell was always glad to put one right.
“Not at all, my dear young mess officer. Not at all. You must send it through channels."
"I don't think his office is far away. I might just run up and see him."
“What nonsense, my poor ignorant young mess officer! In that case what record would exist of this matter!"
So picture the mess officer in question studying in "Army Paper Work" all about going through channels. As a result he might turn out something like the following: ​ "Camp Upton, N. Y.
“October, 1917.
From: 2nd Lt. Blank, To: C. O. Dep't of Houschold Enemies. Subject: Corn Willy.
I. Information is desired as to any known method of making corn Tilly palatable.
(sig) John BuaXK, 2nd Lt., 305th F.A.
That would occupy some two inches on & sheet of fools-cap. A few months later Lt. Blank, probably in charge of stables now, might receive a breathless messenger, bearing a huge envelope with his original slieel of foolscap pinned to reams of indorsements. These would run something like this:
Ist Ind. From C. O., Bat'ry Blank, To C. O., 305th F.A.
1. Forwarded. 2. Approved.
2nd Ind. From C.O., 305th F. A. to Com. Gen. 152nd F. A. Brigade, with, perhaps, a paragraph or two.
3rd Ind., From Com. Gen. 152nd F. A. Brigade, to Com. Gen. 77th Division, with, perhaps, several paragraphs, scarcely ever more than a word in length.
4th Ind., From Com. Gen., 77th Div., to Adjutant General of the Army.
1. For investigation of record of Private C. Willy.
5th Ind., From Adjutant General of the Army to Con. Gen., 77th Div.
1. Received. 2. Contents noted. 3. No record. 4. Should be forwarded to Quartermaster General of the Army. ​ 6th Ind. From Com. Gen. 77th Div. to Quartermaster General of the Army.
7th Ind. From Quartermaster General of the Army, to C. O. Subsistence Division,
8th Ind. C. O. Subsistence Division, to Chief Q. M., Dep't of East.
9th Ind. Chief Q. M., Dep't of East to C. 0. Eastern Subdivision Department of Household Enemies. 10th Ind., From C.. Eastern Subdivision of Household Enemies to Lt. Blank. (Through Channels)
1. Received. 2. Contents noted. 3. No method Known.
"What shall I do with it now that I've got it?" asks Lt. Blank. "What would you suppose?" is the tolerant answer of the expert. "It has become a matter of official record.
Consequently it must be preserved for ever, or nearly so. File it away.'
“There isn't much room left in our barracks," says Blank hopelessly.
But the expert, you may be sure, doesn't let him brood over that very long.
"Your nioruing report was in a shocking state to-day, Blank."
“But I sat up all night, making out individual horse records."
“No excuse. How many horses have you got, anyway?” Blank gulps.
"In the stabics, or on paper?"
He retreats with visions of facing charges.
That matter of preparing charges, by the way, sprinkled with gray the temples of organization commanders, and the scanning of charge sheets made many an enlisted man ​fancy his last hour had arrived. Every "Whereas," and "In that he did", must be in its proper place; and, no matter how accurately the sheet might set forth the vivid language usually employed by the accused, unless "or words to that effect" capped the quotation the whole business was sent back to the drawer with caustic comment.
Drawn by Musician Boyle, Hq. Co. Reflections on liberty were alike at Upton and in France
In those days men learned to be expert witnesses, and officers became judge advocates, counsels for the defence, and judges with supreme power. But most of the cases brought before the regimental courts martial were not vicious ones. There really were surprisingly few of any sort. It was inevitable we should have one type of case, for home was very near Camp Upton, and passes were not plentiful. A handful of men, when they did get home, found it strangely simple to miss the proper trains back. When they missed too many, battery punishment wouldn't cover the crime, and they had to stand trial.
Tuesday was the worst day. Then such little dramas as this were not infrequent:
Scene: The orderly room. Battery Commander at his desk, outwardly tyrranous and uncompromising; at heart, fighting a very human sympathy (Some battery commanders have been known to wish that they, too, might have stayed an extra twenty-four hours with their families). Opposite: Culprit stands, shame-faced, pulling at his hat. B. C.—Stop pulling at your hat. Stand at attention. (Culprit snaps his heels together)
​ B. C.—Now, Doe, what possible excuse have you for overstaying your pass twenty-four hours? The time was written down. The other men got back, You know what it means, Doe, to be A. W. O. L.
(That sequence of four letters has a sound suggestive of blank walls and firing squads.)
Culprit, (Head drooping, voice thin and tremulous)
Well, sir, you see me mother-in-law was down already with the rheumatiz. She was that bad that
B. C., (Impatiently) Go on. Go on.
Culprit, (less confident)—and me wife was took Sunday night with the same terrible disease. I was just leaving for the train, too, and I couldn't get a doctor, and—
B. C. (In an arctic voice) That's enough, Doe. Those excuses were old when Noah overslayed his leave from the ark.
Culprit—(A gleam of disappointed tears in his eyes) I told 'em I wouldn't get away with it, but, hones' to Gawd, Captain, they was the best lies we could think of, and me mother-in-law said the last thing: "Stick to it, Tim, no matter what your cocky officer says."
In an army, plentifully sprinkled with men of German or Austrian descent, it was, of course, necessary to be cautious. "When is an enemy alien not an enemy alien?” became for a time the pet riddle of the paper workers. From month to month the successful answer appeared to alter, yet, except from the point of view of paper work, it troubled us little.
There were, however, conscientious objectors—not many, just enough to irritate soldiers who couldn't express their displeasure in a natural, fistie fashion without infringing the law. Were the most of these creatures nervous or sincere, men asked? Their days and nights in barracks, I fancy, weren't to be coveted. For a conscientious objector, ​ whose sincerity you couldn't question, you might conceive a certain admiration, but with such a war facing a nation the burden of proof, unfortunately, rests on the objector.
Worst of all, conscientious objectors complicated paper work. From many sources came orders and suggestions as to their treatment; and when they flagrantly refused to obey commands, as they had a nasty habit of doing, they had to be courtmartialed, and they usually picked the most inconvenient times for their performances, arguing, perhaps, that salvation lay there. We desired to see the last of them. But how? Providence reaches its ends in devious ways.
This is really not straying to another topic. Just then one of our castles tumbled. We weren't going to live, fight, and die together as we had started at Upton. Specific orders commenced to arrive, demanding large numbers of men. Up to the end of November we had lost by transfer two assigned officers, two attached officers, and 346 men. We got in return First Lieutenant Frederick H. Brophy, of the dental corps, on October 16th; Second Lieutenants George H. Hodenpyl, Karl R. McNair, and William A. Walsh, on November 12th; Second Lieutenant H. Stanley Wanzer, on November 22d; and some straggling enlisted replacements.
It is impossible to say where those friends of a few weeks went. They left, more often than not as casuals, bound for some remote division in the South or West. We didn't see them again.
​ The philosophy of the average soldier is direct and competent. It was after such an exodus that one explained to his companions during mess:
"What's the use of grouching? That's what war is—saying good-by. Just saying good-by, fellows. Might's well get used to it now."
These partings, nevertheless, weren't all sentiment. Let us value them at one-third regret and two-thirds paper work. The orders demanding them frequently slipped into the regimental area during the quiet hours before the dawn. Anything that awakened you was known as a Trick Order. Trick Orders seldom came singly. For several nights running they would glide in, lights would gleam from orderly roolus until shamed by the sun, and all those concerned would display at reveille acute symptoms of insomnia. There was no evasion when trick orders rustled through the camp. If a battery commander sought a way by preparing a list against unexpected transfers, Paper Work merely sneered, thinking of the devices he had up his sleeve. At three A. 21., it might be, a red-eyed battery clerk would appear at a captain's cot.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir."
A groan.
“Barracks on fire?"
"No, sir. An order's just come to transfer five men."
The captain cries out, sitting up.
"Don't you know this is the first sleep I've had for three nights? Didn't I give you a list just so I could get some sleep?"
"Yes, sir," replies the battery clerk gently, “but this is a very tricky trick order. The men are to be reported at the station fully equipped, at 5:30 this A. M. They'll be equipped, even though the supply sergeant does lead a hunted life for a while. Meantime I've brought the service records for the captain to initial." ​ The battery commander surrenders, convinced that, no matter how artfully you may dodge, paper work will always tag you around the corner.
The preparation of these lists for transfers was a delicate matter. That's why the subject wasn't changed when we slipped away from conscientious objectors a moment ago.
Some soldiers, clearly, could be better spared than others. A few, officers and men desired enormously to get rid of. But we couldn't picture running along at all without the greater part. It had been impressed upon us that by men was meant men of the first quality. At conferences on the subject developed a touching and sublime faith in human nature, an out-and-out belief that in the very worst of artillerymen resides a mine of extraordinary virtue only requiring the delving of the receiving officer. And, one might add, even in the very most conscientious of conscientious objectors…
The battery commander glances up from his roster. "Could we," he asks, "spare this man Richard Roc?” “It would be like amputating a limb," a lieutenant answers, "but it might be managed."
The battery commander grunts.
“Didn't realize he was as bad as that. What the deuce is the matter with him? Isn't he strong and handy?
Doesn't he look like a soldier?"
“If you look hard the other way."
The first sergeant says in a small voice.
"He's a conscientious objector, sir."
"Goodness gracious! I'd quite forgot that."
"Do we sit in judgment on a man's religion?" someone asks gruffly.
"My dear boy! It isn't a religion at all. It's a state of nerves."
"I don't care what any one says," the lieutenant puts ​ in, "he's got the makings of a good soldier—if properly handled."
The battery commander's indignation arresting, "Who's been mishandling him here? It's clear someone has, and I'll look into that later. I'm bound every man shall get a fair show. It's clear that Doc isn't getting his here. No matter whose fault now. I'm going to give him his show—send him where he'll get all that's coming to him. Put his name on the list for transfer."
One day the trickiest of trick orders came down, No more conscientious objectors would be transferred. An attempt would be met by the return of the objector and the prompt trial of the offending officer. The 305th read the thing complacently, glancing down the sturdy brown lines. It had no significance for us then. Had we ever had a conscientious objector? No one seemed able to recall. At any rate there was none then. There was none when we sailed for France.
Now and then the trick orders contained troublesome particulars. Perhaps an organization would be called on to furnish a man equipped to become a battery or com- pany clerk. Then the committee on transfers would really get down to work, for good battery clerks were as rare as good first sergcants. You can scc the members anxiously scanning again and again the well-worn qualification cards. You can picture the shaking of breads, the helpless frowns. Then, perhaps, you can remember one speaking up victoriously.
"Here's the very bird."
"Read the chief particulars of his qualification card," the chairman demands.
The other holds the card to the light, declaiming in a sing-song voice:
"Ivan Stroffowski. Born in Russia. Occupation: ​ push cart peddler Education: None. Neither reads nor writes English.'
The members of the committee glance at each other. A tentalive whisper filters through the room. It isn't one whisper. It is a sibilant chorus.
“Ivan! Thou art the man!”
Aside from Trick Orders and routine paper work, there were family allotments, insurance allotments, and liberty loan allotments, And it mustn't be forgotten here that up to October 28th the regiment had gone into its pocket and subscribed $70,300 to the second liberty loan. All of these records figured on the pay-rolls, at the making up of which Paper Work had some of his cheeriest moments. Pay-rolls, too, gave the men rather more than their share of paper work. Everybody recalls that spirited lyric, set to the tune of "John Brown's Body."
"All we do is sign the pay-roll. All we do is sign the pay-roll. All we do is sign the pay-roll. And we never get a blank, blank cent."
Like much poetry, this was a trifle exaggerated, for on pay day, when the long lines formed, there was always some real money on the orderly room table. Nevertheless, on pay day night groups could be heard intoning such another lyric of the war as this:
"The U.S. pays us thirty per, Or so the papers say: But if you get a dollar ten,
It's a heluva big pay day."
Yet consider the soldier who gets nothing—the replacement, perhaps, who was entrusted with his own service record and who has lost it. ​ "Do you know what this means?" the captain snaps at him. “Do you realize your entire record is gone- punishments and rewards, clothing, allotments, every- thing? Do you understand that without your service record you can't be paid?"
The replacement glances at the paper work suspended from the walls, littering the table, overflowing to the floor. His lip trembles.
"I don't know much, sir, since I got inteh the army."
And, as the captain glances at the paper work, too, there flashes through his mind: