Marching is the infantryman’s lot. A recruit gets winded and his feet blisters on a march in his new boots. New boots give you blisters because they do not give as your feet works inside them. A young soldier gains endurance and tough soles and cares for his boot. Boots broken in and maintained do not blister a soldier experienced in marching. Poor boots fall apart before a veteran does. Well-made boots last and were sought after on the battlefield from the feet of the fallen from the Civil War and going back.
Uniforms from any era should be well-made to be long-lasting, too. They should fit, not be snug, but offer full freedom of movement. They should be smart, easy to care for in the field, and tough enough to last in the field.
Armies of Ancient Greece and Rome had none of the advances in boots, backpacks, webbing, and uniforms that today’s soldiers benefit from. (It’s become a serious field of study.) But even those ancient soldiers were expected to carry heavy packs and march long distances. Perhaps not as heavy nor as far, but comparable. And their boots were, roughly, hobnailed leather sandles. They wore coarse garments under chainmail shirts or (for the Greeks) stiff cuirasses made of layers of glued canvas.
In short, soldiers learned to bear up under whatever gear they had, good or bad. The fancy uniforms of the 18th and 19th century weren’t necessarily the ones they marched or did their day-to-day camp chores. Those were the ones they fought in in the belief it would give them pride and intimidate the enemy.
It’s a fascinating topic and you’re right to ask about it.
For Father’s Day. Father was an army poet. He wrote the dedication poem for History of the Second Infantry, The Regimental Patch. In his book of poetry, one of his poems describes the marching,
https://iment.com/maida/family/father/oldsoldiersdrums/p14-asawa-ni-ako-15-oldsoldiersdrums.htm
OLD SOLDIERS’ DRUMS
I’m just too old for drilling
I can’t hike anymore;
So I’m bound for the soldiers’ graveyard
Behind an office door.
They sing - “Old soldiers never die.”
We don’t; we live on crumbs -
The shrilling, splendid bugles
An’ the thunder of the drums!
I won’t do Guard in a snowstorm
An’ I won’t hafta go an’ fire;
It’s just messin’ around an office
An’ waiting to retire.
“Approved per First Indorsement ...”
An’ through the window comes
The music of a Guardmount
An’ the cadenced, throbbin’ drums!
Twenty-three and a butt in the Doughboys;
Why, I’ve hiked a million miles!
But they said my age couldn’t stand it
An’ they detailed me to the files!
This work is nice for some men
Who can take it as it comes.
But you know their hearts ain’t achin’
For the pullin’, poundin’ drums!
D.S. 1/4C. an’ a non-combatant!
When there’s guys tha’d give their life
To piddle around an office
An’ go home at night to the wife.
But I’ll get back to formation;
There’s a day that always comes:
An’ I’ll ride on a painted cassion
With the muffled, sobbin’ drums!
***
and another poem imagines the life of a Roman soldier, including the chaffing uniform.
https://iment.com/maida/family/father/oldsoldiersdrums/p28-amanchutemple-29-asongoflegions.htm
A SONG OF LEGIONS
Then the Legions turned from Britain
On the long white road to Caul
From the purple patterned heather
Bound tight against the Wall.
The Little Painted Peoples
Ran shadows through the grass
As they clawed aside the branches
To watch our Eagles pass.
The gallant, vanquished Eagles
With their faces turned toward home,
The proud and polished Eagles
That led the shields from Rome.
The blazing day flung glory
From each rank of tilted spears
And the Cohorts sang of Roma
As their thoughts rolled back the years.
The salt sweat burned the callous
Where the wet straps tugged and tore
And each shift of shield and armour
But seemed to cut the more.
This land was Rome’s and Romans held it
Though the black seas bit the beach,
And wing-helmed through ice and snow whorls
Came those of alien speech.
Huge men and brave in combat
Yellow-haired and raiders all;
But they dropped sail once near Vectis
And we pinned them near the Wall.
Good blades and mighty axemen
And they met us knee to knee,
But our sullen, dark browed Legion
Turned and flung them back to sea.
Yes, they tossed their sails and left us
Bruised and battered, bloody, numb
Yes, we whipped them, whipped them, whipped them
But they never ceased to come!
They’ll come again and take this
All this bleakly lovely shore;
The Picts can never stop them
And the Eagles soar no more.
For the Legions turn from Britain
And their half-completed task -
Rome’s will - there is no question
That a soldier dares to ask,
Dares to ask or stops to wonder -
There is no Law but Rome!
But the land my comrades died in
The Legions called it - home.