It was a great day when we went to War with the Imperial German Government. The statements of the President and Congress said that we were going to war with the German Government—Imperial Government—and not the people of Germany. It was very consoling, indeed, to know that we were merely fighting Imperialism, and that when we killed a German we were only taking a pot-shot at the Government. Also when we died we could feel that we had not been killed by the German people, but by the Imperial German Government. In that way, we could requiescat in pace—that is, lie easy in our graves.

Good soldiers do not irk themselves with the pain of thinking on such things as right or wrong. For such a Utopian condition would end wars, and no nation cares to take the chance of being the first. It takes mass thinking (or unthinking) to carry out mass killing successfully.

After I had gone through the grind of three months in an officers' training camp, I found myself out in California, serving in the 157th (1st Colorado) Infantry. Many of us arrived with big ideas—that we would reform this "militia regiment," with our superior training. But we received a few jolts ourselves.

The regimental commander was Pat Hamrock—a man of no great education, but I think the best regimental commander in America. The regimental adjutant was Captain Head, who roared at us poor second lieutenants—but he kept us out of trouble. Our lieutenant colonel, Rice W. Means, who had a bunch of medals for heroism in the Spanish War, made speeches about democracy, and kept us feeling very patriotic.

I was a machine gunner. I was thereby entitled to wear boots, so I bought a pair from a profiteer, had them shined, and with the new gold bars to show my rank, went to town. Thus appareled, we lieutenants roistered and brawled in San Diego and Coronado.

My Captain was named Cook; and being of a different political faction from the rest of the regiment, he cooked me a devil of a broth. To make things worse, he had been transferred from the cavalry, which did not recommend him to an infantryman; then as now, I believed that nothing compared to the infantry; and I can sing a song to prove it.

So I hated my Captain. He was a handsome fellow; which did not seem to help any. If you have ever heard a cavalryman give commands, and if you have either conscience or soul, you will be horrified at the mush mouthed manner with which they roar out. For indeed, no one but a horse can understand them. Instead of saying "squads right," they say "fours right." And instead of saying "march" in a military manner, they insult you by bellowing "Ho!" It sounds like a cow mooing for a lost calf.

Captain Cook, green from his horses, and I, hot from infantry training, would march on the field with our men. He would become confused and yell "Fours Right!" Then he would bellow "Ho—o—o," rolling out his o in such a way as to give me and my doughboys the infantry spasms. Being a respectful lieutenant, I did not tell him what I really thought, nor did I repeat our remarks about horses. I offered only mild remonstrance.

But my Captain had other habits which disgusted me. He had a dog that was perpetually barking. The dog was a nuisance. The more I thought of the dog, the more I hated the Captain. The more I thought of the Captain, the more I hated the dog. One day he (the dog) ran out and bit me on the leg. There was no pain because he bit me on a very heavy pigskin legging. But this gave me a chance to tell the dog what I thought of him—I mean the dog's direct ancestors, and this I did in loud and tumultuous tones. I knew that my Captain was in his tent, and would hear. It was no disgrace for the dog to have the kind of ancestors that I mentioned, for they were only natural to him. However, I poured forth abuse in such an arrogant, insulting, and overbearing way, that the Captain popped out of his tent.

I do not use story-book English when I say he was purple with rage. I presume that a brain-teaser would say that the "canine was the focal point of the dispute," but we growled at each other. We had pretended to be friends, but now the feud was on in full fury.

From that day, I became quite military, and formal, and observed only the strictly necessary amenities. But horse commands were burning me up. One day we marched out on the field in a column of squads. I was in command of the front platoon. All of a sudden the Captain yelled: "Fours left"—and then his long "H—o—o." I growled to my platoon, "No command has been given, you are not horses, you are men. Wait for an infantry command." When the "Ho" came out the rest of the Company wheeled into a squads left, and at a company front went off in the direction of ninety degrees from my column—and we proceeded to the other end of the field.

The Captain did not notice it until we were a good distance away and he ran from one to the other using some barrack-room language which I, being a respectable infantryman, shall not repeat. He gave numerous commands. I ordered my men to obey none of them. Finally he yelled at the top of his voice, "Stand fast." I had my men halt—and stood glowering at their head. There followed an unseemly row on this field of Mars, and the Captain dismissed me and sent me into my tent—in disgrace, and "under arrest." I told him that I went to the tent of my own free will, inasmuch as the Colonel was the only person who could put me under arrest. I sulked in my tent; I believe I out-sulked anybody in military history.

The Captain was determined to punish me this time. He was right and I was wrong. But I did not think so. His tent was next to mine, and I heard his typewriter grinding out court martial charges against me. I got sorer with every sound from his keyboard. But I was unrepentant. He left the tent and stalked away.

Just then Colonel Hamrock walked by. The Lord came to my aid, for the Captain's dog rushed out and bit the Colonel on the leg! The Colonel abused the dog as much as I had previously done, but he did not know the owner. The Colonel was especially angry, for he had several times ordered dogs to be "confined or securely tied in the rear of the companies," and here was a free dog, in the front, in violation of orders. I knew my troubles were over.

So I slipped up to regimental headquarters to be there ahead of my Captain and his charges. I told the Adjutant and the Colonel that I had "a little trouble with my Captain." It was about the cavalry commands, I said. Captain Head, the Adjutant, listened with contempt. I decided to shift my ground. I referred to the incident of the dog, and complained of "intolerable abuse." The Colonel pricked up his ears. We had something in common, having "suffered intolerable abuse" together. He demanded that my Captain be sent to headquarters to give an explanation.

The Captain appeared, and there was a hot discussion about disobedience in dog and man. But it was Captain Cook, and not I, who was the object of investigation. I had diverted the scent. No more was said of my derelictions of discipline; the incident was forgotten. But never again did the Captain yell at us as if we were horses; and I always treated his dog with respect. For indeed, the dog had saved me from disgrace.

Captain Cook soon left the company—whether out of dislike for me or not, I do not know. However, he was a good soldier then, and is one now. He is one of the high ranking officers of the army. But to think of him always revives memories of "Ho—o—o" and the dog.

I was soon promoted to first lieutenant, and took command of the company. I was still having my difficulties, nevertheless. I could, with great show, take a machine gun apart, but putting it together was another matter. A few pieces would always be left over, or I simply couldn't get it together. But I knew how to maintain discipline, even if I could not be so respectful myself.

Tons of propaganda rolled in from Washington. I had not then heard of George Creel, but it was George's stuff, and it dripped with nobility of phrase, and fine patriotic sentiments. We were ordered to digest it, and then make flaming speeches to our troops.

One day I was slated to make a speech to the men on "The Causes of the War." One of our troubles was that many of our men were Mexicans and did not know English so well.

I was worried, for if I could not explain it in English to Americans, it would be a hard job to explain it to a Mexican-American. I did not pretend to know the causes of the war myself. In fact, I very well knew that we had no business in the war, and I had no personal interest in it. I was just an egotistical kid in the Army, doing, if one feels like giving it a dignified phrase, my duty.

Wars can only be fought with young men. It is not because they can more easily bear the physical hardship. For indeed, those of us who are old soldiers can still stand the pain of body, the physical stress. But more mature men cannot stand the mental hardship, and the thought of it.

But the speech had to be delivered. So I called in Lieutenant Boley B. Brush, handed him the propoganda, and told him to make the speech. He glared at me. He wanted to know what he was supposed to say.

You are supposed to say, I said, "that we are fighting to make the world safe for democracy, as Colonel Means said."

"That ain't so," said Brush.

"What?" I said, in stentorian tones. "Do you mean to tell me that we are not fighting for democracy and freedom? For liberty?"

Brush had no sense of humor whatever. He was a realist and did not consider what I was saying as humorous in the least.

Finally he said:

"J. P. Morgan caused this War. It's enough that I join the army to fight for my country without me lying to a bunch of Mexicans from New Mexico and my own friends from Colorado. I ain't going to make any speech; I am for my country all right, but I ain't going to lie—we are a bunch of collectors, that's what we are. I won't make the speech. I'll fight for my country, but——"

"Lieutenant Brush," I interrupted in a very dignified manner, "your statements astound me. I cannot understand you. I have only the utmost contempt for such opinions. I shall make the speech myself."

I was about to burst out laughing, but Lieutenant Brush was so sore that he could hardly contain himself. He turned on his heel, and walked away in high dudgeon. He was an earnest, honest fellow.

So I called the company together. I made them such a resounding speech on patriotism as no American ever heard before. I told them about Nathan Hale regretting that he could die only once for his country. I told them of the Stars and Stripes, the Flag, of the Constitution, of the Declaration of Independence, of Democracy and Freedom. I told them of the men who suffered in Valley Forge, and how the blood trickled out of their feet onto the snow. I also told them—for most of my men were from Bernalillo County, New Mexico—that New Mexico was once a part of the great and proud State of Texas, that the great State of Texas had a single star; that in 1836, they, a small nation of only thirty-five thousand people, had fought for liberty against the Republic of Mexico (although I did not emphasize Mexico) and had won against overwhelming odds. That the sons of America had ever taken up their arms for liberty, freedom and democracy. I was proceeding at a great rate and was on the point of weeping at my own oratory.

I had almost forgotten to use the portion of Lieutenant Colonel Rice W. Means' speech, in which he repeated President Wilson's words, that we had gone to war "To make the world safe for democracy." So I repeated that at least twenty times to be sure that my men would remember that we were fighting for democracy. The proper procedure on these occasions was to make a long speech, and then instruct the men to repeat by rote some part of what we had said. So I made them repeat "To make the world safe for democracy" several times. That is the proper military method, and you can always court martial a man unless he thinks exactly right.

The smartest one of my friends in the group was Pedro Salazar, and so I picked him out to answer my catechism. I had worked myself up to a patriotic dither by this time, standing up in the evening sunshine and watching my shadow fall on the ground.

I pointed to Pedro with a dramatic gesture, and said:

"Why are you fighting for your country?"

Pedro rose very timidly, and he thought for a long time. I knew that he was going to give an answer which would inspire all of my men to go forth to battle, and plant the Stars and Stripes on the Kaiser's front yard.

These are the words that Pedro Salazar, my friend, uttered:

"I don't know, Lieutenant, why I are in de war."

He hesitated again:

"But," he said—and then I knew that his patriotic words were coming out—

"But de draft board, he send me here."

I have no wish to insult any of my fellow Americans who joined the army. But as one who has taken the trouble to think things out, I believe that Pedro Salazar knew as much as any average person about the causes of war. Moreover, I believe that Pedro Salazar knew as much as Woodrow Wilson, Vice-President Thomas Marshall and the various Congressmen who voted for the war.

In his simplicity, he gave a very honest answer: "De draft board, he send me here."

About that time a contingent of drafted soldiers, all Mexicans, and none of them knowing a word of English, were transferred to our regiment, also from New Mexico. They were sent to an infantry company. Here was a chance for me to get out of the machine-gun company without anybody knowing my ignorance. I applied for transfer, and got it. Later, however, I wished to be back in the machine-gun company, for Pedro Salazar and his friends were Shakespearean scholars compared with the new contingent.

I knew some Spanish—at least, enough military Spanish borrowed from refugees in San Antonio—to drill my men. So I would bellow: "Esquadras a la derecha!" And I carried on simple conversations in Spanish. This, however, was not approved by headquarters. They issued instruction that all conversations in the future should be in English.

So I started a class in English to be known as the "Teaching of English by Objects." I would teach grammar in this manner: I would have a man point at himself and say, "I am a man." Then I would have him point at someone else and say: "He is a man." Then he would look someone straight in the face, and in conversation, would say: "You are a man." So, my men were pointing all over the place and learning the English with their fingers and their mouths. The only trouble was that they were not the best students in the world at night and would sing their songs, one of which was "Triste, Triste, Triste." As surely as the word trist means sad, they would all get thay way, and I suspect that many of them wished they were back in New Mexico—as I later found out in a big way.

My teaching of English proceeded; my scholars did well. I received a regimental citation of excellence for the work that I was doing as an English instructor.

Then we were notified that there would be an inspection in about two weeks, and that we were supposed to have maneuvers in the trenches. Each man should be placed in proper strategic position, as rifleman, rifle grenadier, and so on. For many days I trained them to answer what they were.

In the trenches, the Inspector General from Washington asked them questions as to their specialty in warfare. The General marched up to one of my men, Juan Pedraza, and asked him what he was. Juan imagined it was a grammar class.

He smiled at the General. He pointed at himself. He said: "I am a man."

The General was furious. He wanted to know what the hell this was all about. He glared at me, and then at Juan, but Juan did not know why he had offended. The worst was yet to come. The General said to Juan, "Who is the Commanding General of this division?" With an expression of childish credulity on his face, Juan pointed to me and said,

"Lieutenant Maverick."

Then I knew or felt I was a complete failure. For it looked as though I was neither officer nor teacher. I was too scared to laugh.

A day or two later, the morning report disclosed that two of my men were missing. We noted their disappearance and it was duly reported at Regimental Headquarters. About ten days later, the Mexican officers across at Tia Juana turned over to the civil authorities the two deserters. They were brought back to our company and placed in the stockade.

I was appointed by my Colonel to represent these two men in the court martial. The court duly convened and I walked in, looking at the various and sundry officers, my good pleasant friends, but whose faces, while on this court, were like the judges of the Inquisition. As I beheld them, I was literally horrified.

I had taken my duty seriously, and without any thought of the consequences of it. I had gone to a law library in town. I studied all about a soldier's constitutional rights—and also got some books on the subject of "natural" rights. At the trial, I quoted the statements of James Otis and Sam Adams on "Natural Rights," made preceding the American Revolution. I delivered such learned discussions as to bore everybody to death. I told the court in essense that these men were ignorant of the English language, and that they did not know the causes of the war. I said they did not know why we were fighting, and moreover, I really didn't either. I said further that they quite naturally had deserted into Mexico, hoping that they could go down through the Northern States of Mexico and slip back into New Mexico. That it was improper to draft a man who had absolutely no knowledge of American customs or the English language. Then I gave them a batch of decisions of the Supreme Court on the Civil War. I believe the Draft Law case of the World War in the Supreme Court had not been rendered at that time. I was questioned very sharply by the court martial but stood my ground and went away feeling sure that I would get my Mexicans off altogether so that they could be bob-tailed out of the army and go back to their farms, or get ninety days and soon be back with me on duty. I left the court.

In about half an hour, Lieutenant Colonel Rice Means came to my quarters and told me that they were getting ready to file charges against me.

"For what?" I said.

"For your remarks," he said.

"What remarks?" I demanded.

It then appeared that my remarks were considered as being seditious, unpatriotic and in violation of the principles of Americanism, or something else, and unless I deleted my statement to the court, I would be forthwith court-martialed. I told Colonel Means that I would under no circumstances make any change. He argued with me awhile, and then I saw an amused look come over his face. He laughed and said he would do what he could for me. I never heard any more about it, and I never knew, until I became a member of Congress that Colonel Means, who later became a Senator from the State of Colorado, and who was in Washington in still another capacity at the time I was elected, had run through the court martial and deleted my remarks.

There is no sense in war. There is no sense in those who engage in it. It is the opposite of reason.

But soon we were merrily moving from California to France. The train clanged up. I sat on the cow-catcher, and had my picture taken. I sent the film to my mother to have it developed, and wrote her some idiotic remarks. I never knew how it all must have pained her until just lately my own boy sent me his own picture, all snappy and pretty, in uniform, from the Texas Military Institute. Corporal Maury Maverick, Jr. A smile on his face. The American Eagle on his cap. Healthy, strong, brave. Marching . . . marching. In the name of God and Country.