76 SENIORS TASTE ARMY LIFE AT ETHAN ALLEN THIS SUMMER

It's not everyone who can talk of having spent six weeks in the army and still be out of uniform to finish up at Harvard, but that's the situation of the 76 members of the Class of '42 who spent the first half of the summer at Fort Ethan Allen, near Burlington, Vermont, at R.O.T.C. camp.

Along with 45 Yale men, the neophyte shavetails moved into their canvas homes in the midst of the Vermont wilderness, practically in the shadow of Mount Mansfield, on June 21, and moved out on August 2 after a month and a half of army life.

The camp served a dual purpose in the military life of Harvard's future Field Artillery officers. First it taught them how to fire guns, how to hit a target with a 75 shell, how to camoflage a truck, and 101 other little tricks of How to Make People Sore and Influence Enemies.

Second, and just as important, camp taught the 115 cadets what the life of the ordinary soldier is. They got up at 5:40, at out of their tin messkits and lined up to wash them, did K.P. dug ditches, drove trucks, stood guard, and stood inspection. They learned to do calisthenics while their eyes were so full of sleep that they couldn't see the officer leading them. They learned to curse, literally like troopers. They learned what a Wellesley Freshman feels like checking out of camp and back in the latter by 10:45.

The routine of camp life was very simple. The notes of reveilles, or technically speaking, of "first call", blasted the night air at 5:40, but not the notes of a bugle. The Army has gone modern. The sergeant whose job it was to serve as bugler simply turned over in bed and started a phonograph which played the bugle calls over a public address system. The phonograph also had a large collection of popular songs, and it was not an unusual occurrence a few seconds after reveille for the stirring military notes of "The Booglie Wooglie Piggy" to sound forth.

After calisthenics and breakfast had been put out of the way and the arduous task of dish washing, the summer soldiers piled into tracks (there were no horses) and hauled the guns out on the range. Then half would be formed into gun crews to do the actual firing, the other half would go up on a hill to an observation post to observe and direct fire.

A break came at 12 for lunch and then three more hours of firing. About once a week an inspection of tents, uniforms, boards, haircuts, shoes, and belt buckles was conducted with demerits and K.P. for all breaches of military cleanliness. Retreat at 5 and supper at 5:30 ended the official day.

With Burlington only 17 miles away and four and a half hours of freedom before taps, the whole day was not over.

Harvard and Yale men mingled indiscriminately and the tents always contained at least one out of the four tent mates from each college. The 115 men formed a battalion which was divided into three batteries according to height. Curiously enough the Harvard men towered over the Elis in height, and Battery "A", "The Giants", was composed mostly of Harvard men while Battery "C". "The Ggnomes", was strongly pro-Bulldog.

The food in the army was excellent it was as good as House food is the opinion of a good many of the Crimson delegation and some even considered it better.

Discipline was rigorously enforced by use of the demerit system. Every ten demerits meant two afternoons on K.P., and K.P. meant dish washing, pot-scraping, sweeping, and even dusting.

Not only does the R.O.T.C. get discipline from the regular officers but also from the non-comms, the sergeants and the corporals. The cadets were in an anomalous position, neither officer nor enlisted men, fish nor fowl, and even the privates, feeling that it was their last and only opportunity to lord it over the future officers, bossed them around.

The prize honor of the year, much to the joy of the Crimson, was pulled by a Yale man. Early in the training period the battalion was subjected to gas mask drill. Each man was issued a mask and taught how to put it on in drill formation. The command was: By the numbers, gas, 1, 2, 3. Each command was the signal for some action--taking the mask out of its case, putting it over the face, and finally putting it on.

The corps drilled for an hour on gassing by the numbers and then went through the gas chamber where they proved to themselves the efficiency of a mask in staving off the effects of tear gas by the process of breathing through the mask for a minute or so and then it taking it off for 20 seconds.

Then the next day there came a new test, and it was at this point that the Yale man rose to heights of glory. The enlisted men used a few smoke bombs to raise a screen and then the battalion was told to "charge" through it without masks on. The idea was that someone had mixed a few tear bombs with the smoke bombs and the officers wanted to see how long it would be before the cadets would catch on and throw on their masks. The trial was 99 per cent a success. The one per cent was the Yale man.

He sniffed the gas, all right, and he heard people around him yelling, "Gas, gas," but, unfortunately for him, there was no officer to shout, "By the numbers, gas 1, 2, 3". The Eli was imbued with a strong sense of discipline, and he couldn't see putting on his mask without a formal command. So with a whispered prayer to God, to country, and to Yale he continued to stick it out, like the proverbial lad who stood on the burning dack whence all but he had fled.

When a rescue squad reached him he was running madly around in circles trying to find his way out of the smoke and gas while the tears rolled out of his reddened eyes. They carried him out, the first casualty of the corps