“Bags, barrack," it began.
Why, in the name of abused commas, wouldn't "Barrack bags” have done as well?
"Breeches, O. D.," "Socks, winter," "Gloves, riding, "Poles, tent,” “Razors, safety," "Tags, indentification."
It ran something like that, and so far we followed, if reservedly. We revolted only at:
"Shirts, under," "Drawers, under."
Perhaps an obsessed clerk, typing the copies, was responsible for that.
This is how one spent one's time in the age of equipment checking:
In the somnolent barracks you arranged your equipment according to the intricate pattern. Everybody had a different idea as to some of the more esoteric details of the pattern, and you compared notes until you didn't know whether you would be passed, arrested for distortion, or praised for acute originality. Then you endeavored to keep awake. If you were an officer, you took your lists, tried to get the cunning pattern through your head yourself, and wished to heaven you could smoke on the job.
A non-commissioned officer slams into the sleepy room, singing out:
“Attention!”
The officer walks in. It probably isn't severity that gives his face that peculiar expression, you decide. It's more likely a stifled yawn.
"Rest!” he croons. "All except this first man."
He checks the articles on the cot.
"Where," he demands, "is your fifth pair of socks?"
The warrior blushes.
"On me pusson, sir."
The officer reflects. This time his frown isn't wholly
