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his blanket, and his overcoat. His knapsack sat at the end, along with his leather accouterments, or traps, as they were called.
    He rolled his gum and blanket together and tied them to the top of his knapsack. He found his soap and cloth after rummaging through one of the compartments. By now, the tent began to fill with its other occupants going about similar activities.
    “Ach! Another day of drill!” complained Hildebrande when he entered with Gustavson.
    “Drill is drill; something vee has to do,” Gustavson chided.
    “Oh, der Alte Hasse, the old hand Gustav is going to teach us the importance of drill!” Hildebrande said and smirked.
    “Ach, visdom is vasted on die jungen.” Gustavson waved his hand at Hildebrande , a man only five years his junior, and rolled his bed.
    Robert ducked out of the tent and headed for the sinks. The stench of urine and dung affronted his nostrils long before he came in sight of the common refuse pit. Quickly taking care of his business and a brief wash from the water barrel, he made his way to the company cook fire where he found an open spot among the men. Sullen, half-asleep faces stared into the fire and awaited the completion of the coffee. The coffee boiler suspended above the fire steamed slightly, circled by men with their mugs held out like patients waiting for their quinine dose.
    Robert watched as the flames flickered upward. One man sat cross-legged opposite him and poked at the coals with a stick, while others just stood comatose.
    “Isn’t that thing boiling yet?” the company cook asked.
    Silent nods answered him.
    “Well, have a go at it. You waitin’ fer me to pour it for ya?”
    One by one the mugs were filled with steamy liquid. Once-vacuous faces showed signs of life.
    Robert slowly stirred a chunk of hard tack in his coffee and nibbled on the corners. Hildebrande and Gustavson eagerly consumed their crackers and coffee, engaging in a lively debate about who made better women, Tennessee or Missouri. Robert listened in amusement as Hildebrande got the worst of the argument.
    “Light marching order for drill,” First Sergeant Hammel muttered when he walked past the fire watchers.
    Robert reached for his time piece and noted how much time he had remaining before formation. He worked on his hardtack, gnawing at the end softened by soaking in coffee.
    “Feels like it going to be another hot one, ja?” Hildebrande asked. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as he gulped his coffee.
    The air was thick with the aroma of cantonment, the gathering of thousands in a long-term camp. Fires billowed at the ends of company streets, and the living dead gathered around them, waiting for the coffee to re-awaken their stiff bodies. In quiet comradeship soldiers gathered, watching flames lick the air and avoiding serpentine smoke trails. This was the part of army life Robert loved—the silent togetherness. Soon, though, the relaxation would be broken by the exertion of drill. But for now, it was peaceful.
    The other characters of the camp, personalities that could be found around any fire, were busy with their peculiar pursuits. Robert was solidly in the camp of the fire watchers whose only enjoyment in the morning was to crawl out of blankets and seek the flames like insects sought light. Little conversation occurred, merely the uttering of some baleful line or exclamation followed by grunts and nods of agreement. Occasionally, the company wag, those men gifted with a sense of occasional comic brilliance, became inspired and started up a tale or waxed philosophic on favorite topics. Otherwise, it was each man to his own thoughts.
    Then there would be the dutiful. Always in motion, always cleaning or prepping something or attending to their hygiene, these men were as lively when they awoke as they were before they slept. They were always the first to be in formation, always the first to have their traps prepared, and always ready fifteen minutes before they were needed.