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regiment. His squad marched with their rifles down or held over the wrong shoulder. Their coats were unbuttoned, their pants legs stuck out of their boots. And when they attempted the bayonet drill, they stuck each other repeatedly.
    For three weeks the Kansas Volunteers marched and drilled at the fort. Jeff was afraid the war would be over before the First Kansas Regiment of Infantry would reach the battleground. His fear grew each day.
    Finally on the first of July, 1861, the command was sufficiently trained to cross the Missouri River on the military ferry and bivouac in the big timber beyond. There Jeff liked the hard, rugged training in the open. It was getting him nearer his first battle.
    But David Gardner liked no part of it. He never seemed to understand the commands. The officers scolded him constantly, and the other recruits hazed him. Soon he became the loneliest volunteer in camp. Jeff helped him all he could. But David never seemed to adjust to army life.
    One night Jeff found him sobbing in his bunk.
    â€œI’m lonesome,” David blurted, miserably. “I want to go home and see Ma. Goshallmighty, Jeff, I ain’t cut out to be no soldier. I was a fool to ever leave the farm.”
    â€œCorn, Dave,” Jeff said, in alarm, “you can’t just walk off from the army once you’ve joined it. That’s desertion. You know the penalty for desertion. They’ll stand you up against a wall and shoot you.”
    David’s pinched face looked pale. His eyes were red. He clenched his teeth with desperation. “I’m jist about homesick enough to chance it,” he said, defiantly. Then his mood softened. “It’s just about time to harvest the wheat at home. How’s Ma gonna manage with me gone? Onless I’m there to help her, they’ll likely starve, come winter.”
    â€œNo, they won’t, Dave,” argued Jeff. “Pa will help her. And so will the other Free State families.” David stopped sniffing, but he didn’t seem comforted.
    At night the soldiers had lots of time on their hands. The veterans, who had already drawn their pay, gambled it away. There were all kinds of card-playing, foot-racing, long-jumping and side-hold wrestling.
    Bill Earle, a corporal in Jeff’s company, had a rich tenor voice. He was from Bluemont Central College, a Methodist school at Manhattan. He would sing to the boys whenever they asked him after supper. Once they discovered an open-air revival in progress behind a small sod schoolhouse near the bivouac spot. Most of Jeff’s outfit attended, and several of the boys became converted, including all the tough ones.
    Because of the hard daytime training in the woods and on the prairie, the soldiers never seemed to get enough to eat. They were served bacon, beans, hardtack, and coffee three times a day but soon began to yearn for more variety.
    One hot night in mid-July they discovered a large patch of ripe watermelons in an open field. Unfortunately, a soldier stood guard over them. For nearly a week Jeff’s company marched back and forth past the field, their mouths watering.
    One of the men in Jeff’s outfit was Noah Babbitt, a tramp printer from Illinois. He was a tall, droll fellow, whose skin was tanned dark as mahogany from his long travels in the open. He had set type in newspaper offices all the way from Illinois to San Antonio, Texas, traveling by foot across Indian Territory. Even the longest marches failed to tire him. He was always soaking his long, gnarled feet in salt water to toughen the skin for the long jaunts. He read everything he could get his hands on.
    â€œBoys, I’ve got it,” Noah said, late one hot afternoon after they had been dismissed from maneuvers. “Get ready to eat those watermelons.”
    â€œI’ve been ready for a week,” said Jeff, dropping his knapsack and canteen into the sand by his feet. Pulling off his shoes, he lay on his back in the