[Letter of Robert O’Connell to his sister, Ellen, June 1917]

Wash. Barracks, D.C.
Friday

Dear Ellen,

	I am sending this letter to you instead of to Ma or 
the others as I have been doing. I have just put in the hardest 
two weeks of my life, I guess, down at the rifle range. It is 
about twenty miles below Washington, on the Potomac, at a spot 
where the bank is almost straight up and down, about as high as 
a tree. It looks very pretty from the river, the tents in even 
rows and all the bushes and high weeds and the lower branches 
on the trees being cut away. The trees run out to the bank and 
the tents are pitched among them and passengers on the passing 
steamers probably wish they were camping out there. But when we 
(A, B and C companies), got there two weeks ago last Monday, 
there were no tents and lots of brush and weeds and hard work. 
The brush 

(2)
and lots of the trees disappeared, by hand, but the hard work 
stayed. For two days we worked around camp and lugged and 
tugged and sweated and wondered why we had ever wanted to 
leave our happy home at the Barracks. But there was worse 
coming. For the next two days we cleared away trees and 
brush about a mile from camp. On Friday we went on the target 
range and got our first kick from a army rifle. The jar is no 
joke, at first, because it shakes you all over and the gun 
seems determined to get away, so that it was a wonder we 
even hit the air. Half the company shot in the forenoon 
while the other half worked in the pits, pushing the 
targets up into view and pointing out each hit with a long 
stick. The hits are like this [here follows a small sketch]

(3)
The targets are in pairs, on a frame work and balance 
each other so that when one target is hit, it is pulled 
down and the other rises above the parapet. The bullet 
hole in the lower target is pasted over and, after the 
next shot, it is pushed up and the hit pointed out. 
Then the hole in the other target is pasted over and 
so on, until the firing is over. I fired in the 
morning and managed to get in with the higher ones 
on the score. Working the targets is not hard but 
hot and tiresome. Next day we cleared away more trees 
and set up telephone poles between the camps and the 
range. We didn’t work on Sunday but they called us out 
twice during the morning so we didn’t dare to stay out 
of hearing. In the afternoon we heard that measles had 
broken out in camp and about fifty suspects were bustled 
into separate tents. This is Sunday, after dinner. We 
had beef steak, boiled potatoes, sweet corn, stewed 
onions, thick gravy, salad 

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made of lettuce, beets, pickled cucumbers and peppers, 
bread and butter, sliced peaches and milk. But to get 
back to the camp. They put the whole outfit in 
quarantine and announced that we would be there 
until ten days after the last case was reported. 
On Monday we started building trenches like they 
have in France and it took me the rest of the week 
to get used to a pick and shovel. We worked on 
reliefs of twenty minutes on and forty off, with 
three gangs. As twenty minutes is rather hard, 
we all worked hard and it took forty minutes to 
get partly rested. The first two days were fierce. 
We put on overalls and jumper over our underclothes 
and leggins outside, to keep out dirt and bugs. 
The jumper was taken off in a few minutes because 
the heat was something. My arms were burned red. 
That reminds me of what Bob Dunn said about my tan. 
It was kind of him but it is mostly sunburn, although 
we are all a shade darker. I soon found that I 
couldn’t keep up with the others 

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and the officers kept an eye on me until they saw 
what brawny arms I had to work with. Then, as I 
worked every minute of the twenty, they watched 
the others instead. On Wednesday we had more 
shooting and I fell off, badly. I couldn’t get 
used to the ‘kick,’ at first, and flinched each 
time. When I finally steadied, I was too far 
behind and made a medium score. We shot from 
standing, kneeling, sitting and prone positions. 
The first standing shot I fired pushed me over 
on one heel. Another chap was sitting and the 
rifle rolled him over on his back. Several 
got careless after a few shots and held the gun 
loosely. Their faces were bumped badly. I did that 
once and my shoulder felt as if a rock had hit it. 
The only way is to hold hard against one’s shoulder. 
On Thursday and Friday we dug some more. I never 
sweat so much in my life, as the trenches were 
out in the woods and seldom got a breeze. Some of 
the fellows built 

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barbed wire entanglements in front of the 
trenches and others blew up stumps or rocks 
for practice. One charge they set off made 
things seem like a young battle for a few 
moments. They laid a railroad rail on the 
place, Lord knows why, and put an extra 
heavy charge in, which was covered with dirt 
and stones. We were busy digging when there 
was a loud bang and the air, away overhead, 
whistled and whined for a few seconds and a 
loud droning sound began and died away. 
Then we heard a crash, quite away down 
the road and a yell. The rail had passed 
over us and taken a branch off a tree near 
a road building party. On Saturday, we 
did more shooting and I didn’t have to work 
in the pit, as all the targets were not in 
use. We loafed all day Sunday, as it was 
too hot to move around and I washed some 
clothes in the Potomac but the water is plain 
muddy water, in spite of its fine name 

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and the clothes were none too clean. I hung 
them on the tent ropes to dry, same as everyone 
else, but the dust was like talcum, and every 
step or breeze raised it so the clothes were 
not quite snowy when they finally dried. Next 
day, we finished the trenches and scattered 
leaves and rubbish over them to hide them. The 
captain offered a dollar to the man who would go 
through or over the barbed wire in five seconds. 
The entanglements are of the latest British style 
and a chap named Jones won it. He joined the English 
army in Australia and was shot through the wrist at 
the Dardanelles. The wrist stiffened and he was 
discharged. When he got home, all his friends were 
gone and only the older men were left, so he made 
a trip to France and England and then to this 
country, where he enlisted again. Two days ago, 
he was made a corporal, the first step above a private 
and will probably 

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go higher before the Germans get him. We finished 
things in the morning and in the afternoon, we 
packed up and got ready to leave next day. We 
traveled both ways by boat and it was good to 
get back to the Barracks, where we had cement 
walks and grass to walk on and where one could 
get out of bed without spreading a newspaper to 
stand on, where we have shower baths instead of 
a muddy river and don’t have to be in bed at taps. 
After being back for nearly a week it seems more 
of a joke but I shouldn’t care to repeat it, day 
for day. As I was coming off the boat, I met 
Ed Butler, with his luggage, going aboard. His 
company was going to take our place and we were 
all happy and smiling, they, because they were 
going to camp out and we, because the good Lord 
let us get away from the simple life for the few 
weeks before the regiment leaves. I will write 
you again next Sunday.
       Rob.

[Transcribed 4/23/2009 by W. J. Shepherd]