 Section 7 of Three Soldiers As far as he could see in every direction were the grey trunks of beaches bright green with moss on one side. The ground was thick with last year's leaves that rustled maddeningly with every step. In front of him his eyes followed other patches of olive drab moving among the tree trunks. Overhead through the mottled light in dark green of the leaves he could see now and then a patch of heavy grey sky grayer than the silvery trunks that moved about him in every direction as he walked. He strained his eyes down each alley until they were dazzled by the reiteration of mottled grey and green. Now and then the rustling stopped ahead of him and the olive drab patches were still. Then above the clamour of the blood in his ears he could hear batteries pong pong pong in the distance and the woods ringing with a sound like hail as a heavy shell hurtled above the treetops to end in a dull rumble miles away. Christfield was soaked with sweat but he could not feel his arms or legs. Every sense was concentrated in eyes and ears and in the consciousness of his gun. Time and again he pictured himself taking sight at something grey that moved and firing. His forefinger itched to press the trigger. He would take aim very carefully he told himself. He pictured a dab of grey starting up from behind a grey tree trunk and the sharp detonation of his rifle and the dab of grey rolling among the last year's leaves. A branch carried his helmet off his head so that it rolled at his feet and bounced with a faint metallic sound against the root of the tree. He was blinded by the sudden terror that seized him. His heart seemed to roll from side to side in his chest. He stood stiff as if paralyzed for a moment before he could stoop and pick the helmet up. There was a curious taste of blood in his mouth. I'll pay him for that. He muttered between clenched teeth. His fingers were still trembling when he stooped to pick up the helmet which he put on again very carefully, fastening it with the strap under his chin. Furious anger had taken hold of him. The olive drab patches ahead had moved forward again. He followed looking eagerly to the right and the left praying he might see something. In every direction were the silvery trunks of the beaches, each with a vivid green streak on one side. With every step the last year's russet leaves rustled underfoot maddeningly loud. Almost out of sight among the moving tree trunks was a log. It was not a log, it was a bunch of grey-green cloth. Without thinking, Chrisfield strode towards it. The silver trunks of the beaches circled about him waving jagged arms. It was a German lying full length among the leaves. Chrisfield was furiously happy in the angry pumping of blood through his veins. He could see the buttons on the back of the long coat of the German and the red band on his cap. He kicked the German. He could feel the ribs against his toes through the leather of his boot. He kicked again and again with all his might. The German rolled over heavily. He had no face. Chrisfield felt the hatred suddenly ebb out of him. Where the face had been was a spongy mass of purple and yellow and red, half of which stuck to the russet leaves when the body rolled over. Large flies with bright shiny green bodies circled about it. In a brown clay-grimed hand was a revolver. Chrisfield felt his spine go cold. The German had shot himself. He ran off suddenly, breathlessly, to join the rest of the reconnoitering squad. The silent beaches whirled about him waving gnarled bows above his head. The German had shot himself. That was why he had no face. Chrisfield fell into line behind the other man. The corporal waited for him. See anything? He asked. Not a goddamn thing, muttered Chrisfield, almost inaudibly. The corporal went off to the head of the line. Chrisfield was alone again. The leaves rustled maddeningly loud underfoot. Three. Chrisfield's eyes were fixed on the leaves at the top of the walnut trees, edged like metal against the bright colorless sky, edged with flicks and fringes of gold where the sunlight struck them. He stood stiff and motionless at attention, although there was a sharp pain in his left ankle that seemed swollen enough to burst the worn boot. He could feel the presence of men on both sides of him, and of men again beyond them. It seemed as if the stiff line of men in olive drab standing at attention, waiting endlessly for someone to release them from their erect paralysis, must stretch unbroken round the world. He let his glance fall to the trampled grass of the field where the regiment was drawn up. Somewhere behind him you could hear the clinking of spurs at some officer's heels. Then there was the sound of a motor on the road suddenly shut off, and there were steps coming down the light of men, and a group of officers passed hurriedly with a business like stride, as if they did nothing else all their lives. Chrisfield made out eagles on tight tacky shoulders, then a single star and a double star, above which there was a red ear and some gray hair. The general passed too soon for him to make out his face. Chrisfield swore to himself a little because his ankle hurt so. His eyes travelled back to the fringe of the trees against the bright sky. So this was what he got for those weeks in dugouts, for all the times he had thrown himself on his belly in the mud. For the bullets he had shot into the unknown at gray specks that moved among the gray mud. Something was crawling up the middle of his back. He wasn't sure if it were a louse or if you were imagining it. An order had been shouted. Automatically he had changed his position to parade rest. Somewhere far away a little man was walking towards the long drab lines. A wind had come up, rustling the stiff leaves of the grove of walnut trees. The voice squeaked above it, but Chrisfield could not make out what it said. The wind in the trees made a vast rhythmic sound like the churning of water a stern of the transport he had come over on. Gold flicks and olive shadows danced among the indented clusters of leaves as they swayed, as if sweeping something away against the bright sky. An idea came into Chrisfield's head. Suppose the leaves should sweep in broader and broader curves until they should reach the ground and sweep and sweep until all this was swept away. All these pains and lice and uniforms and officers with maple leaves or eagles or single stars or double stars or triple stars on their shoulders. He had a sudden picture of himself in his old comfortable overalls, with his shirt open so that the wind crest his neck, like a girl blowing down it playfully, lying on a shuck of hay under the hot Indiana sun. Funny he'd thought all that, he said to himself. Before he'd known Andy he'd never have thought of that. What had come over him these days? The regiment was marching away in columns of fours. Chrisfield's ankle gave him sharp hot pain with every step. His tunic was too tight and the sweat tingled on his back. All about him were sweating irritated faces. The woollen tunics with their high collars were like straight jackets that hot afternoon. Chrisfield marched with his fists clenched. He wanted to fight somebody, to run his bayonet into a man as he ran it into the dummy in that everlasting bayonet drill. He wanted to strip himself naked, to squeeze the wrists of a girl until she screamed. His company was marching past another company that was lined up to be dismissed in front of a ruined barn, which had a roof that sagged in the middle like an old cow's back. The sergeant stood in front of them with his arms crossed, looking critically at the company that marched past. He had a white heavy face and black eyebrows that met over his nose. Chrisfield stared hard at him as he passed, but Sergeant Anderson did not seem to recognize him. It gave him a dull angry feeling, as if he'd been cut by a friend. The company melted suddenly into a group of men unbuttoning their shirts and tunics in front of the little board shanty where they were quartered, which had been put up by the French at the time of the Marne years before, so a man had told Andy. What are you dreaming about, Indiana? said Judkins, punching Chrisfield jovially in the ribs. Chrisfield doubled his fists and gave him a smashing blow in the jaw that Judkins warded off just in time. Judkins' face flamed red. He swung with a long bent arm. What the hell do you think this is? shouted somebody. What's he want to hit me for? spluttered Judkins, breathless. Men had edged in between them. Let me get at him! Shut up, you fool! said Andy, drawing Chrisfield away. The company scattered suddenly. Some of the men laid down in the long uncut grass in the shade of the ruins of the house, one of the walls of which made a wall of the shanty where they lived. Andrews and Chrisfield strolled in silence down the road, kicking their feet into the deep dust. Chrisfield was limping. On both sides of the road were fields of ripe wheat golden under the sun. In the distance were low green hills fading to blue, pale yellow in patches with the ripe grain. Here and there a thick clump of trees or a screen of poplars broke the flatness of the long smooth hills. In the head rows were blue cornflowers and poppies in all colors from carmine to orange that danced in the wind on their wiry stalks. At the turn in the road they lost the noise of the division and could hear the bees droning in the big dull purple clover heads and in the gold hearts of the daisies. You're a wild man, Chris! What the hell came over you to try and smash poor old Judkey's jaw? He could lick you anyway, he's twice as heavy as you are. Chrisfield walked on in silence. God, I should think you'd had enough of that sort of thing. I should think you'd be sick of wanting to hurt people. You don't like pain yourself, do you? Andrews spoke in spurts, bitterly, his eyes on the ground. I think I sprained my goddamn ankle when I tumbled off the back of the truck yesterday. Better go on sick, call. Say, Chris, I'm sick of this business. Almost like you'd rather shoot yourself than keep on. I guess you're getting the dolefuls, Andy. Look, let's go in swimming. There's a lake down the road. I've got my soap in my pocket. We can wash a few cooties off. Don't walk so goddamn fast. Andy, you got more learning than I have. You ought to be able to tell me what it is makes a fellow go crazy like that. I guess I got a bit of the devil in me. Andrews was brushing the soft silk of a poppy petal against his face. I wonder if it'd have any effect if I ate some of these, he said. Why? They say you go to sleep if you lie down in a poppy field. Wouldn't you like to do that, Chris? And not wake up till the war was over and you could be a human being again. Andrews bit into the green seed capsule he held in his hand. A milky juice came out. It's bitter. I guess it's theopium, he said. What's that? A stuff that makes you go to sleep and have wonderful dreams. In China, dreams, interrupted Chris Field, I had one of them last night. Dreamed I saw a fellow that had shot his self that I saw one time reconnoitre and out in a bringy wood. What was that? Nothing, just a frits he had shot his self. Better than opium, said Andrews, his voice trembling with sudden excitement. I dreamed the flies buzzing round him was aeroplanes. Remember the last rest village? And the major who wouldn't close the window? You bet I do. They lay down on the grassy bank that sloped from the road to the pond. The road was hidden from them by the tall reeds, through which the wind lisped softly. Overhead, huge white cumulus clouds piled tear on tear like fantastic galleons in full sail floated, changing slowly in a greenish sky. The reflection of clouds in the silvery glisten of the pond's surface was broken by clumps of grasses and bits of floating weeds. They lay on their backs for some time before they started taking their clothes off, looking up at the sky that seemed vast and free, like the ocean, faster and freer than the ocean. Sarge says a D Laoson machine's coming through this way soon. We need it, Chris. Andrews pulled his clothes off slowly. It's great to feel the sun and the wind on your body, isn't it, Chris? Andrews walked towards the pond and lay flat on his belly on the fine, soft grass near the edge. It's great to have your body there, isn't it? he said in a dreamy voice. Your skin's so soft and supple, and nothing in the world has the feel a muscle has. Gee, I don't know what I'd do without my body. Chris field laughed. Look how my old ankles raised. Found any cooties yet? he said. I'll try and drown him, said Andrews. Chris, come away from those stinking uniforms and you'll feel like a human being with the sun on your flesh instead of like a lousy soldier. Hello, boys! came a high-pitched voice unexpectedly. A Y-man with a sharp nose and chin had come up behind them. Hello! said Chris field, sullenly limping towards the water. Want the soap? said Andrews. Going to take a swim, boys? asked the Y-man. Then he added in a tone of conviction. That's great. Better come in too, said Andrews. Thanks, thanks. Say, if you don't mind my suggestion, why don't you fellas get under the water? You see, there's two French girls looking at you from the road. The Y-man giggled faintly. Then they don't mind, said Andrews, soping himself vigorously. I reckon they like it, said Chris field. I know they haven't had any morals, but still. And why should they not look at us? Maybe there won't be many people who get a chance. What do you mean? Have you ever seen what a little splinter of shell does to a fellow's body? asked Andrews savagely. He splashed into the shallow water and swam towards the middle of the pond. He might ask him to come down and help us pick the cooties off, said Chris field, and followed in Andrews' wake. In the middle he lay on a sand bank in the warm shallow water, and looked back at the Y-man, who still stood on the bank. Behind him were other men undressing, and soon the grassy slope was filled with naked men and yellowish gray underclothes, and many dark heads and gleaming backs were bobbing up and down in the water. When he came out he found Andrews sitting cross-legged near his clothes. He reached for his shirt and drew it on him. God, I can't make up my mind to put the damn thing on again. Said Andrews in a low voice, almost as if he were talking to himself. I feel so clean and free. It's like voluntarily taking up filth and slavery again. I think I'll just walk off naked across the fields. Do you call serving your country slavery, my friend? The Y-man, who had been roaming among the bathers, his neat uniform and well-polished boots and patees, contrasting strangely with the mud-clotted, sweat-soaked clothing of the man about him, sat down on the grass beside Andrews. You goddamn right, I do. Well, get into trouble, my boy. If you talk that way, said the Y-man in the cautious voice. Well, what is your definition of slavery? You must remember that you are a voluntary worker in the cause of democracy. You're doing this so that your children will be able to live peaceful ever shot a man. No. No, of course not. But I'd have enlisted, really, I would. Only my eyes are weak. I guess so, said Andrews under his breath. Remember that your women folks, your sisters and sweethearts and mothers, are praying for you at this instant. I wish somebody would pray me into a clean shirt, said Andrews, starting to get into his clothes. How long have you been over here? Just three months. The man's sallow face, with its pinched nose and chin, lit up. But boys, those three months have been worth all the other years of my men, he caught himself. Life. I've heard the great heart of America beat. Oh, boys, never forget, you are in a great Christian undertaking. Come on, Chris, let's beat it. They left the Wyman wandering among the men along the bank of the pond, to which the reflection of the greenish, silvery sky and the great, piled white clouds gave all the free immensity of space. From the road they could still hear his high-pitched voice. And that's what'll survive you and me, said Andrews. Say, Andy, you sure can't talk to them, guys, said Chris admiringly. What's the use of talking? God, there's still a bit of honeysuckle in bloom. Doesn't that smell like home to you, Chris? Say, how much do they pay these Wyman, Andy? Damned if I know. They were just in time to fall into line for mess. In the line, everyone was talking and laughing, and livened by the smell of food and the tinkle of mess kits. Near the field kitchen, Chris Field saw Sergeant Anderson talking with Higgins, his own sergeant. They were laughing together, and he heard Anderson's big voice saying jovially, We've pulled through this time, Higgins. I guess we will again. The two sergeants looked at each other and cast a paternal, condescending glance over their men and laughed aloud. Chris Field felt powerless as an ox under the yoke. All he could do was work and strain and stand at attention, while that white-faced Anderson could lounge about as if he owned the earth and laugh importantly like that. He held out his plate. The K.P. splashed the meat and gravy into it. He leaned against the tar-papered wall of the shack, eating his food and looking suddenly over at the two sergeants, who laughed and talked with an air of leisure, while the men of their two companies ate hurriedly as dogs all round them. Chris Field glanced suddenly at Anderson, who sat in the grass at the back of their house, looking out over the great white fields, while the smoke of a cigarette rose in spirals about his face and his fair hair. He looked peaceful, almost happy. Chris Field clenched his fists and felt the hatred of that other man, rising stingingly within him. Guess I got a bit of the devil in me, he thought. The windows were so near the grass that the faint light had a greenish color in the shack where the company was quartered. It gave men's faces, tanned as they were, the sickly look of people who work in offices, when they lay on their blankets in the bunks made of chicken wire, stretched across moldy scantlings. Swallows had made their nests in the peak of the roof, and their droppings made white dobs and blotches on the floorboards in the alley between the bunks, where a few patches of yellow grass had not been completely crushed away by footsteps. Now that the shack was empty, Chris Field could hear plainly the peep-peep of the little swallows in their mud nests. He sat quiet on the end of one of the bunks, looking out of the open door at the blue shadows that were beginning to lengthen on the grass of the meadow behind. His hands, that had got to be the color of terracotta, hung idly between his legs. He was whistling faintly. His eyes, in their long black eyelashes, were fixed on the distance, though he was not thinking. He felt a comfortable, unexpressed well-being all over him. It was pleasant to be alone in the barracks like this, when the other men were out at grenade practice. There was no chance of anyone shouting orders at him. A warm drowsiness came over him. From the field kitchen alongside came the voice of a man singing, Oh my girls, a lulu, every inch a lulu, Is lulu that pretty little girl or mine? In their mud nests, the young swallows twittered faintly overhead. Now and then there was a beat of wings, and a big swallow skimmed into the shack. Chris Field's cheeks began to feel very softly flushed. His head drooped over on his chest. Outside, the cook was singing over and over again in a low voice, amid a faint clatter of pans. Oh my girls, a lulu, every inch a lulu, Is lulu that pretty little girl or mine? Chris Field fell asleep. He woke up with a start. The shack was almost dark. A tall man stood out black against the bright oblong of the door. What are you doing here? said a deep snarling voice. Chris Field's eyes blinked. Automatically, he got to his feet. It might be an officer. His eyes focused suddenly. It was Anderson's face that was between him and the light. In the greenish obscurity, the skin looked chalk white in contrast to the heavy eyebrows that met over the nose and the dark stubble on the chin. How is it you ain't out with the company? I'm Barrick's guard, muttered Chris Field. He could feel the blood beating in his wrists and temples, stinging his eyes like fire. He was staring at the floor in front of Anderson's feet. Orders was all the company's was to go out and not leave any guard. Ah, we'll see about that when Sergeant Higgins comes in. Is this place tidy? You say I'm a goddamn liar, do you? Chris Field felt suddenly cool and joyous. He felt anger taking possession of him. He seemed to be standing somewhere away from himself, watching himself get angry. This place has got to be cleaned up. That damn general may come back to look over quarters. Went on Anderson Cooley. You call me a goddamn liar, said Chris Field again, putting as much insolence as he could summon into his voice. I guess you don't remember me. Yes, I know. You're the guy who tried to run a knife into me once, said Anderson Cooley, squaring his shoulders. I guess you've learned a little discipline by this time. Anyhow, you've got to clean this place up. God, they haven't even brushed the bird's nests down. Must be some company, said Anderson with a half laugh. I ain't going to neither for you. Look here, you do it, or it'll be the worst for you. Shouted the Sergeant in his deep, rasping voice. If ever I get out of the army, I'm going to shoot you. You've picked on me enough. Chris Field spoke slowly, as Cooley is Anderson. Well, we'll see what a court martial has to say to that. I don't give a hoot in hell what you do. Sergeant Anderson turned on his heel and went out, twisting the corner button of his tunic in his big fingers. Already the sound of tramping feet was heard, and the shouted order, Dismissed. Then men crowded into the shack, laughing and talking. Chris Field sat still on the end of the bunk, looking at the bright oblong of the door. Outside he saw Anderson talking to Sergeant Higgins. They shook hands, and Anderson disappeared. Chris Field heard Sergeant Higgins call after him. I guess the next time I see you off to put my heels together and salute. Anderson's booming laugh faded as he walked away. Sergeant Higgins came into the shack and walked straight up to Chris Field, saying in a hard, official voice, You're under arrest. Small, guard this man. Get your gun and cartridge belt. I'll relieve you so you can get mass. He went out. Everyone's eyes were turned curiously on Chris Field. Small, a red-faced man with a long nose that hung down over his upper lip, shuffled sheepishly over to his place beside Chris Field's cot, and let the butt of his rifle come down with a bang on the floor. Somebody laughed. Andrews walked up to them, a look of trouble in his blue eyes, and in the lines of his lean, tanned cheeks. What's the matter, Chris, he said in a low voice. Told that bastard I didn't give a hootin' hell what he did, said Chris Field in a broken voice. Say, Andy, I don't think I ought to let anybody talk to him, said Small in an apologetic tone. I don't see why Sergeant always gives me all his dirty work. Andrews walked off without replying. Never mind, Chris, they won't do nothing to you, said Jenkins, grinning at him good-naturedly from the door. I don't give a hootin' hell what they do, said Chris Field again. He lay back in his bunk and looked at the ceiling. The barracks was full of a bustle of cleaning up. Judkins was sweeping the floor with a broom made of dry sticks. Another man was knocking down the swallow's nests with a bayonet. The mud nests crumbled and fell on the floor and the bunks, filling the air with a flutter of feathers and the smell of bird lime. The little naked bodies with their orange bills too big for them gave a soft plump when they hid the boards of the floor, where they lay giving faint, gasping squeaks. Meanwhile, with shrill little cries, the big swallows flew back and forth in the shanty, now and then striking the low roof. Say, pick him up, can't ya? said Small. Judkins was sweeping the little gasping bodies out among the dust and dirt. A stoutish man stooped and picked the little birds up one by one, puckering his lips into an expression of tenderness. He made his two hands into a nest-shaped hollow, out of which stretched the long necks and the gaping orange mouths. Andrews ran into him at the door. Hello, Dad, he said. What the hell? I just picked these up, so they couldn't let the poor little devils stay there? God, it looks to me as if they went out of their way to give pain to everything, bird, beast, or mad. War ain't no picnic, said Judkins. Well, God damn it, isn't that a reason for not going out of your way to raise more hell with people's feelings than you have to? A face with peaked chin and nose on which was stretched, a parchment-colored skin appeared in the door. Hello, boys, said the Y-man. I just thought I'd tell you I'm going to open up the canteen tomorrow, in the last jack on the Bokor Road. There'll be chocolate, ciggies, soap, and everything. Everybody cheered. The Y-man beamed. His eye lit on the little birds in Dad's hands. How could you, he said, an American soldier being deliberately cruel? I would never have believed it. You've got something to learn, muttered Dad, waddling out into the twilight on his bandy legs. Christfield had been watching the scene at the door with unseeing eyes. A terrified nervousness that he tried to beat off had come over him. It was useless to repeat to himself again and again that he didn't give a damn. The prospect of being brought up alone before all those officers, of being cross-questioned by those curt voices, frightened him. He would rather have been lashed. Whatever was he to say, he kept asking himself. He would only get mixed up or say things he didn't mean to, or else he wouldn't be able to get a word out at all. If only Andy could go up with him. Andy was educated like the officers were. He had more learning than the whole shooting match put together. He'd be able to defend himself, and defend his friends, too, if only they'd let him. I felt just like those little birds that time they got the beat on our trench at Bodicor, said Jenkins, laughing. Christfield listened to the talk about him as if from another world. Already he was cut off from his outfit. He'd disappear and they'd never know or care what became of him. The mess call blew, and the men filed out. He could hear their talk outside, and the faint sound of their mess kits as they opened them. He lay on his bunk, staring up into the dark. A faint blue light still came from outside, giving a curious purple color to Small's red face, and long drooping nose at the end of which hung a glistening drop of moisture. Christfield found Andrews washing a shirt in the brook that flowed through the ruins of the village, the other side of the road from the buildings where the division was quartered. The blue sky, flecked with pinkish white clouds, give a shimmer of blue and lavender and white to the bright water. At the bottom could be seen battered helmets and bits of equipment and tin cans that had once held meat. Andrews turned his head. He had a smudge of mud down his nose and soap suds on his chin. Hello, Chris, he said, looking him in the eyes with his sparkling blue eyes. How's things? There was a faint anxious frown on his forehead. Two-thirds of one month's pain confined to quarters, said Christfield cheerfully. Gee, they were easy. Um-hum! said I was a good shot and all that, so they'd let me off this time. Andrews started scrubbing in his shirt again. I've got this shirt so full of mud I don't think I ever will get it cleaned, he said. Move your old hide away, Andy, I'll wash it. You ain't no good for nothing. Hell no, I'll do it. Move your hide out of there! Thanks awfully. Andrews got to his feet and wiped the mud off his nose with his bare forearm. I'm gonna shoot that bastard, said Chris Field, scrubbing at the shirt. Don't be an ass, Chris. I swear to God, I am. What's the use of getting all wrought up? The thing's over. You'll probably never see him again. I ain't all het up. I'm going to do it, though. He rung the shirt out carefully and flipped Andrews in the face with it. There you are, he said. You're a good fellow, Chris, even if you are an ass. Tell me we're going into the line in a day or two. There's been a devil of a lot of artillery going up the road. French, British, every old kind. They tell me they's raised in hell in the Oregon forest. They walked slowly across the road. A motorcycle dispatch rider whizzed past them. It's them guys has the fun, said Chris Field. I don't believe anybody has much. I don't believe anybody has much. What about the officers? They're too busy feeling important, have a real hell of a time. The hard cold rain beat like a lash in his face. There was no light anywhere and no sound but the hiss of the rain in the grass. His eyes strained to see through the dark until red and yellow blotches danced before them. He walked very slowly and carefully, holding something very gently in his hand under his raincoat. He felt himself full of strange, subdued fury. He seemed to be walking behind himself, spying on his own actions. And what he saw made him feel joyously happy, made him want to sing. He turned so that the rain beat against his cheek. Under his helmet he felt his hair full of sweat that ran with the rain down his glowing face. His fingers clutched very carefully the smooth stick he had in his hand. He stopped and shut his eyes for a moment. Through the hiss of the rain he had heard a sound of men talking in one of the shanties. When he shut his eyes he saw the white face of Anderson before him, with its unshaven chin and the eyebrows that met across the nose. Suddenly he felt the wall of a house in front of him. He put out his hand. His hand jerked back from the rough wet feel of the tar paper, as if it had touched something dead. He groped along the wall, stepping very cautiously. He felt as he had felt, reconnoitering in the branchy wood. Phrases came to his mind as they had then. Without thinking what they meant, the words, Make the world safe for democracy, formed themselves in his head. They were very comforting. They occupied his thoughts. He said them to himself again and again. Meanwhile his free hand was fumbling very carefully with the fastening that held the wooden shutter over a window. The shutter opened very little, creaking loudly. Louder than the patter of rain on the roof of the shack. A stream of water from the roof was pouring into his face. Suddenly a beam of light transformed everything, cutting the darkness in two. The rain glittered like a bead curtain. Chris Field was looking into a little room, where a lamp was burning. At a table covered with printed blanks of different sizes sat a corporal. Behind him was a bunk and a pile of equipment. The corporal was reading a magazine. Chris Field looked at him a long time. His fingers were tight about the smooth stick. There was no one else in the room. Sort of panic seized Chris Field. He strode away noisily from the window and pushed open the door of the shack. Where's Sergeant Anderson? He asked in a breathless voice of the first man he saw. Corpse there, if it's anything important, said the man. Anderson's gone to an OTC. Left day before yesterday. Chris Field was out in the rain again. It was beating straight in his face, so that his eyes were full of water. He was trembling. He had suddenly become terrified. The smooth stick he held seemed to burn him. He was straining his ears for an explosion. Walking straight before him down the road, he went faster and faster, as if trying to escape from it. He stumbled on a pile of stones. Automatically he pulled the string out of the grenade and threw it far from him. There was a minute's pause. Red flame spurted in the middle of the wheat field. He felt the sharp crash in his eardrums. He walked fast through the rain. Behind him, at the door of the shack, he could hear excited voices. He walked recklessly on, the rain blinding him. When he finally stepped into the light, he was so dazzled he could not see who was in the wine shop. Well, I'll be damned, Chris, said Andrews' voice. Chris Field blinked the rain out of his lashes. Andrews sat writing with a pile of papers before him and a bottle of champagne. It seemed to Chris Field to soothe his nerves to hear Andy's voice. He wished he would go on talking a long time without a pause. If you aren't the crowning idiot of the ages, Andrews went on in a low voice. He took Chris Field by the arm and led him into the little back room, where there was a high bed with a brown coverlet and a big kitchen table on which were the remnants of a meal. What's the matter? Your arm's trembling like the devil. Why—oh, pardon crampette, sayounamee, you know crampette, don't you? He pointed to the youngest woman who had just appeared from behind the bed. She had a flabby rose face and violet circles under her eyes, dark as if they'd been made by blows, and untidy hair. A dirty gray muslin dress with half the hooks off held in badly her large breasts and flabby figure. Chris Field looked at her greedily, feeling his furious irritation flame into one desire. What's the matter with you, Chris? You're crazy to break out of quarters this way. Say, Andy, get out of here. I ain't your sword anyway. Get out of here. You're a wild man, I'll grant you that. But I'd just as soon be your sword as anyone else's. Have a drink. Not now. Andrew sat down with his bottle and his papers, pushing away the broken plates full of stale food to make a place on the greasy table. He took a gulp out of the bottle that made him cough, then put the end of his pencil in his mouth and stared gravely at the paper. No, I'm your sword, Chris, he said over his shoulder. Only they've tamed me. Oh, God, how tame I am. Chris Field did not listen to what he was saying. He stood in front of the woman, staring in her face. She looked at him in a stupid, frightened way. He felt in his pockets for some money. As he had just been paid, he had a 50 franc note. He spread it out carefully before her. Her eyes glistened. The pupils seemed to grow smaller as they fastened on the bit of daintily colored paper. He crumpled it up suddenly in his fist and shoved it down between her breasts. Some time later, Chris Field sat down in front of Andrews. He still had his wet slicker on. I guess you think I'm a swine, you said in his normal voice. I guess you're about right. No, I don't, said Andrews. Something made him put his hand on Chris Field's hand that lay on the table. It had a feeling of cool health. Say, why were you trembling so when you came in here? You seem all right now. Oh, I don't know, said Chris Field in a soft, resonant voice. They were silent for a long while. They could hear the woman's footsteps going and coming behind them. Let's go home, said Chris Field. All right, bonsoir, crampet. Outside the rain had stopped. A stormy wind had torn the clouds to rags. Here and there clusters of stars showed through. They splashed merrily through the puddles. But here and there reflected a patch of stars when the wind was not ruffling them. Christ, I wish I was like you, Andy, said Chris Field. You don't want to be like me, Chris. I'm no sort of person at all. I'm tame. Oh, you don't know how damn tame I am. Learning sure to help a fellow to get along in the world. Yes, but what's the use of getting along if you haven't any world to get along in? Chris, I belong to a crowd that just fakes learning. I guess the best thing that can happen to us is to get killed in this butchery where a tame generation, it's you that it matters to kill. I ain't no good for anything. I don't give a damn. Laudia feel sleepy. As they slipped into the door of their quarters, the sergeant looked at Chris Field searchingly. Andrews spoke up at once. There's some rumors going on at the Latrine, Sarge. The fellows from the 32nd say we're going to march into Hell's Halfacre about Thursday. A lot they know about it. That's the latest edition of the Latrine news. The hell it is. Well, do you want to know something Andrews? It'll be before Thursday or I'm a Dutchman. Sergeant Higgins put on a great air of mystery. Chris Field went to his bunk, undressed quietly and climbed into his blankets. He stretched his arms languidly a couple of times, and while Andrews was still talking to the sergeant, fell asleep. End of Section 7. Section 8 of Three Soldiers. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by M.B. Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos. Section 8. 4. The moon lay among the clouds on the horizon, like a big red pumpkin among its leaves. Chris Field squinted at it through the boughs of the apple trees, laden with apples that gave a whiny fragrance to the crisp air. He was sitting on the ground, his legs stretched limply before him, leaning against the rough trunk of an apple tree. Opposite him, leaning against another tree, was the square form surmounted by a large, long-jawed face of Judkins. Between them lay two empty cognac bottles. All about them was the rustling orchard, with its crooked twigs that made a crackling sound rubbing together in the gusts of the autumn wind, that came heavy with the smell of damp woods, and of rotting fruits, and of all the ferment of the overripe fields. Chris Field felt it stirring the moist hair on his forehead, and through the buzzing haze of the cognac heard the plunk-plunk-plunk of apples dropping that followed each gust, and the twanging of night insects, and, far in the distance, the endless rumble of guns, like tom-toms beaten for a dance. You heard what the colonel said, didn't you? said Judkins in a voice hoarse from too much drink. Chris Field belched, and nodded his head vaguely. He remembered Andrews' white fury after the men had been dismissed, how he had sat down on the end of a log by the field kitchen, staring at the patch of earth you beat into mud with the toe of his boot. Then went on Judkins trying to imitate the colonel's solemn, efficient voice, on the subject of prisoners. He hiccuffed and made a limp gesture with his hand. On the subject of prisoners, well, I'll leave that to you, but just remember. Just remember what the Huns did to Belgium, and I might add that we have barely enough emergency rations as it is, and the more prisoners you have, the less fellers you'll get to eat. That's what he said, Judki, that's what he said. And the more prisoners you have, the less you'll get to eat. Chanted Judkins, making a triumphal flourish with his hand. Chris Field groped for the cognac bottle. It was empty. He waved it in the air a minute, and then threw it into the tree opposite him. A shower of little apples fell about Judkins' head. He got unsteadily to his feet. I tell you, fellers, he said, war ain't no picnic. Chris Field stood up and grabbed it an apple. His teeth crunched into it. Sweet, he said. Sweet nothing, mumbled Judkins, war ain't no picnic. I tell you, buddy, if you take any prisoners, he hiccuffed. After what the colonel said, I'll lick the spots out of you, by God I will. Rip up their guts, that's all, like they was dummies. Rip up their guts. His voice suddenly changed to one of childish dismay. Gee, Chris, I'm gonna be sick, he whispered. Look out, said Chris Field, pushing him away. Judkins leaned against a tree and vomited. The full moon had risen above the clouds and filled the apple orchard with chilly golden light that cast a fantastic shadow pattern of interlaced twigs and branches upon the bare ground littered with apples. The sound of the guns had grown nearer. There were loud, eager rumbles as of bowls being rolled very hard on a bowling alley, combined with a continuous roar like sheets of iron being shaken. I bet it's hell out there, said Chris Field. I feel better, said Judkins. Let's go get some more cognac. I'm hungry, said Chris Field. Let's go and get that old woman to cook us up some eggs. Too damn late, growled Judkins. How the hell late is it? Don't know, I sold my watch. They were walking at random through the orchard. They came to a field full of big pumpkins that gleamed in the moonlight and cast shadows black as holes. In the distance they could see wooded hills. Chris Field picked up a medium-sized pumpkin and threw it as hard as he could into the air. It split into three when it landed with a thud on the ground, and the moist yellow seeds spilled out. Some strong man you are, said Judkins, tossing up a bigger one. Say, there's a farmhouse. Maybe we could get some eggs from the hen roost. Hell of a lot of hens. At that moment the crowing of a rooster came across the silent fields. They ran towards the dark farm buildings. Look out, there may be officers ported there. They walked cautiously round the square, silent group of buildings. There were no lights. The big wooden door of the court pushed open easily without creaking. On the roof of the barn the pigeon cot was etched dark against the disc of the moon. A warm smell of stables blew in their faces as the two men tiptoed into the newer littered farmyard. Under one of the sheds they found a table on which a great many pairs were set to ripen. Chris Field put his teeth into one. The rich sweet juice ran down his chin. He ate the pair quickly and greedily, and then bit into another. Fill your pockets with him, whispered Judkins. They might catch us. Catch us? Hell, we'll be going into the offensive in a day or two. I sure would like to get some eggs. Chris Field pushed open the door of one of the barns. A smell of creamy milk and cheeses filled his nostrils. Come here, he whispered. Want some cheese? A lot of cheeses ranged on a board shone silver in the moonlight that came in through the open door. Hell no, ain't fit to eat, said Judkins, pushing his heavy fist into one of the new soft cheeses. Don't do that! Well, ain't we saved him from the Huns? But, hell, war ain't no picnic, that's all, said Judkins. In the next door, they found chickens roosting in a small room with straw on the floor. The chickens ruffled their feathers and made a muffled squeaking as they slept. Suddenly, there was a loud squawking, and all the chickens were cackling with terror. Beat it, muttered Judkins, running for the gate of the farmyard. There were shrill cries of women in the house, a voice shrieking, Silly Bosch, silly Bosch, rose above the cackling of chickens and the clamour of guinea hens. As they ran, they heard the rasping cries of a woman in hysterics, rending the rustling autumn night. God damn, said Judkins, breathless. They got no right those frogs ain't to carry on like that! They ducked into the orchard again. Above the squawking of the chicken, Judkins still held, swinging it by its legs. Chrisfield could hear the woman's voice shrieking. Judkins dexterously rung the chicken's neck. Crushing the apples underfoot, they strode fast through the orchard. The voice faded into the distance until it could not be heard above the sound of the guns. Gee, I'm kinda cut up about that lady, said Chrisfield. Well, ain't we saved her from the huns? Andy don't think so. Well, if you want to know what I think about that guy Andy, I don't think much of him. I think he's Yeller, that's all, said Judkins. No, he ain't. I heard the lieutenant say so. He's a goddamn Yeller dog. Chrisfield swore sullenly. Well, just you wait and see. I tell you buddy, war ain't no picnic. What the hell are we gonna do with that chicken, said Judkins? You remember what happened to Eddie White? Hell, we'd better leave it here. Judkins swung the chicken by its neck around his head and threw it as hard as he could into the bushes. They were walking along the road between chestnut trees that led to their village. It was dark except for irregular patches of bright moonlight in the center that lay white as milk among the indented shadows of the leaves. All about them rose a cool scent of woods, of ripe fruits and of decaying leaves, of the ferment of the autumn countryside, the lieutenant sat at a table in the sun, in the village street outside the company office. In front of him sparkled piles of money and daintily tinted banknotes. Beside him stood Sergeant Higgins with an air of solemnity, and the second Sergeant and the corporal. The men stood in line, and as each came before the table he saluted with deference, received his money and walked away with the self-conscious air. A few villagers looked on from the small windows with grey frames of their rambling white-washed houses. In the ruddy sunshine the light of men cast an irregular blue violet shadow, like a gigantic centipede on the yellow gravel road. From the table by the window of the cafe of No Brav Pualoo, where small and Judkins and Crisfield had established themselves with their pay crisp in their pockets, they could see the little front garden of the house across the road, where, behind a head of orange marigolds, Andrew sat on the doorstep talking to an old woman hunched on a low chair in the sun just inside the door, who lent her small white head over towards his yellow one. There you are, said Judkins in a solemn tone. He don't even go after his pay. That guy thinks he's the whole show he does. Crisfield flushed but said nothing. He don't do nothing all day long but talk to that old lady, said small with a grin. Guess she reminds him of his mother or something. He always does go round with all the frogs he can. Looks to me like he'd rather have a drink with a frog than with an American. Reckon he wants to learn their language, said small. He won't never come to much in this army, that's what I'm telling you, said Judkins. The little houses across the way had flushed red with the sunset. Andrews got to his feet slowly and languidly and held out his hand to the old woman. She stood up, a small tottering figure in a black silk shawl. He leaned over towards her and she kissed both his cheeks vigorously several times. He walked down the road towards the billets with the fatigue cap in his hand, looking at the ground. He's got a flower behind his ear like a cigarette, said Judkins with a disgusted snort. Well, I guess we'd better go, said small. We've got to be in quarters at six. They were silent a moment. In the distance the guns kept up a continual tom-tom sound. Guess we'll be in that soon, said small. Crisfield felt a chill go down his spine. He moistened his lips with his tongue. Guess it's hell out there, said Judkins. War ain't no picnic. I don't give a hoot in hell, said Crisfield. The men were lined up in the village street with their packs on, waiting for the order to move. Thin wreaths of white mist still lingered in the trees and over the little garden plots. The sun had not yet risen, but ranks of clouds in the pale blue sky overhead were brilliant crimson and gold. The men stood in an irregular line, bent over a little by the weight of their equipment, moving back and forth, stamping their feet and beating their arms together, their noses and ears red from the chill of the morning. The haze of their breath rose above their heads. Down the misty road a drab-colored limousine appeared, running slowly. It stopped in front of the line of men. The lieutenant came hurriedly out of the house opposite, drawing on a pair of gloves. The men standing in line looked curiously at the limousine. They could see that two of the tires were flat and that the glass was broken. There were scratches on the drab paint and in the door three long jagged holes that obliterated the number. A little murmur went down the line of men. The door opened with difficulty and a major and a light buff-colored coat stumbled out. One arm wrapped in bloody bandages was held in a sling made of a handkerchief. His face was white and drawn into a stiff mask with pain. The lieutenant saluted, for God's sake where's your repair station? He asked in a loud shaky voice. There's none in this village major. Where the hell is there one? I don't know, said the lieutenant in a humble tone. Why the hell don't you know? This organization's rotten. No good. Major Stanley's just been killed. What the hell's the name of this village? Teokor. Where the hell's that? The chauffeur had leaned out. He had no cap and his hair was full of dust. You see, lieutenant, we want to get to Shalom. Yes, that's it. Shalom sir. Shalom sir, Marne, said the major. The billeting officer has a map, said the lieutenant. Last house to the left. Oh, let's get there quick, said the major. He fumbled with the fastening of the door. The lieutenant opened it for him. As he opened the door, the men nearest had seen a glimpse of the interior of the car. On the far side was a long object huddled in blankets, propped up on the seat. Before he got in, the major leaned over and pulled a woolen rug out, holding it away from him with his one good arm. The car moved off slowly, and all down the village street, the men, lined up waiting for orders, stared curiously at the three jagged holes in the door. The lieutenant looked at the rug that lay in the middle of the road. He touched it with his foot. It was soaked with blood that in places had dried into clots. The lieutenant and the men of his company looked at it in silence. The sun had risen and shone on the roofs of the little whitewashed houses behind them. Far down the road, a regiment had begun to move. Five. At the brow of the hill they rested. Christfield sat on the red clay bank and looked about him, his rifle between his knees. In front of him on the side of the road was a French burying ground, where the little wooden crosses, tilting in every direction, stood up against the sky, and the bead reeds glistened in the warm sunlight. All down the road, as far as you could see, was a long drab worm broken in places by strings of motor trucks, a drab worm that wriggled down the slope through the ruthless shell of the village, and up into the shattered woods on the crest of the next hills. Christfield strained his eyes to see the hills beyond. They lay blue and very peaceful in the noon mist. The river glittered about the piers of the wrecked stone bridge, and disappeared between rows of yellow poplars. Some were in the valley, a big gun fired. The shell shrieked into the distance, towards the blue, peaceful hills. Christfield's regiment was moving again. The men, their feet slipping in the clayy mud, went downhill with long strides, the straps of their packs tugging at their shoulders, "'Isn't this great country?' said Andrews, who marched beside him. "'I'd leave her to be an OTC like that bastard Anderson.' "'Oh, to hell with that,' said Andrews. He still had a big faded orange marigold in one of the buttonholes of his soiled tunic. He walked with his nose in the air, and his nostrils dilated, enjoying the tang of the autumnal sunlight. Christfield took the cigarette that had gone out half-smoked, from his mouth and spat savagely at the heels of the man in front of him. "'This ain't no life for a white man,' he said. "'I'd rather be this than that,' said Andrews bitterly. He tossed his head in the direction of a staff car full of officers that was stalled at the side of the road. They were drinking something out of a thermos bottle that they passed round with the air of Sunday excursionists. They waved with a conscious relaxation of discipline at the men they passed. One, a little lieutenant with a black moustache with pointed ends, kept crying. "'They're runnin' like rabbits, fellas! They're runnin' like rabbits!' A wavering half-cheer would come from the column now and then where it was passing the staff car. The big gun fired again. Christfield was near at this time and felt the concussion like a blow in the head. "'Some baby!' said the man behind him. Someone was singing. "'Good morning, mister zip zip zip, with your haircut just as short as, with your haircut just as short as, with your haircut just as short as mine!' Everybody took it up. Their steps rang in rhythm in the paved streets that zig-zagged among the smashed houses of the village. Ambulances passed them, big trucks full of huddled men with gray faces, from which came a smell of sweat and blood and carbollic. Somebody went on. "'Oh, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust! Can that!' cried Judkins. "'It ain't lucky!' But everybody had taken up the song. Christfield noticed that Andrew's eyes were sparkling. "'If he ain't the damnedest,' he thought to himself. But he shouted at the top of his lungs with the rest. "'Oh, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust! If the gas pumps don't get there, they eighty-eight's must!' They were climbing the hill again. The road was worn into deeper ruts, and there were many shell holes full of muddy water into which their feet slipped. The woods began, a shattered skeleton of woods, full of old artillery emplacements and dugouts, where torn camouflage fluttered from splintered trees. The ground and the road were littered with tin cans and brass shellcases. Along both sides of the road the trees were festooned as with creepers, with strand upon strand of telephone wire. When next they stopped, Christfield was on the crest of the hill beside a battery of French 75s. He looked curiously at the Frenchman, who sat about on logs in their pink and blue shirt sleeves, playing cards and smoking. Their gestures irritated him. "'Say, tell him we're advancing,' he said to Andrews. "'Are we?' said Andrews. "'All right. "'D'y don't lay bosh, could you come de la paix?' he shouted.' One of the men turned his head and laughed. "'He said they've been running that way for years,' said Andrews. He slipped his pack off, sat down on it, and fished for a cigarette. Christfield took off his helmet and rubbed a muddy hand through his hair. He took a bite of chewing tobacco and sat with his hands clasped over his knees. "'How the hell long are we going to wait this time?' he muttered. The shadows of the tangled and splintered trees crept slowly across the road. The French artillerymen were eating their supper. A long train of motor trucks growled past, splashing mud over the men crowded along the sides of the road. The sun set, and a lot of batteries down in the valley began firing, making it impossible to talk. The air was full of a shrieking and droning of shells overhead. The Frenchmen stretched and yawned and went down into their dugout. Christfield watched them enviously. The stars were beginning to come out, in the green sky behind the tall, lacerated trees. Christfield's legs ached with cold. He began to get crazily anxious for something to happen, for anything to happen. But the column waited, without moving, through the gathering darkness. Christfield chewed steadily, trying to think of nothing but the taste of the tobacco in his mouth. The column was moving again. As they reached the brow of another hill, Christfield felt a curious, sweeter smell that made his nostrils smart. Gas, he thought, full of panic, and put his hand to the mask that hung round his neck. But he did not want to be the first one to put it on. No order came. He marched on, cursing the sergeant and the lieutenant. But maybe they'd been killed by it. He had a vision of the whole regiment sinking down in the road, suddenly overcome by the gas. Smell any finandi? He whispered cautiously. I can smell a combination of dead horses and tube rolls, and banana oil and the ice cream he used to have at college, and dead rats in the garret. But what the hell do we care now? said Andrews, giggling. This is the damnedest fool business ever. He's crazy, muttered Christfield to himself. He looked at the stars in the black sky that seemed to be going along with the column on its march. Or was it that they and the stars were standing still while the trees moved away from them, waving their skinny shattered arms? He could hardly hear the tramp of feet on the road so loud was the pandemonium of the guns ahead and behind. Every now and then a rocket would burst in front of them, and its red and green lights would mingle for a moment with stars. But it was only overhead he could see the stars. Everywhere else white and red glows rose and fell as if the horizon were on fire. As they started down the slope the trees suddenly broke away, and they saw the valley between them full of the glare of guns and the white light of star shells. It was like looking to a stove full of glowing embers. The hillside that sloped away from them was full of crashing detonations and yellow tongues of flame. In a battery near the road that seemed to crush their skulls each time a gun fired, they could see the dark forms of the artillerymen silhouetted in fantastic attitudes against the intermittent red glare. Stunned and blinded they kept on marching down the road. It seemed to Chrisfield that they were going to step any minute into the flaring muzzle of a gun. At the foot of the hill, beside a little grove of uninjured trees, they stopped again. A new train of trucks was crawling past them, huge blots in the darkness. There were no batteries near so they could hear the grinding roar of the gears as the trucks went along the uneven road, plunging in and out of shell holes. Chrisfield lay down in the dry ditch, full of bracken, and dozed with his head on his pack. All about him were stretched other men. Someone was resting his head on Chrisfield's thigh. The noise had subsided a little. Through his doze he could hear men's voices talking in low crushed tones as if they were afraid of speaking aloud. On the road the truck drivers kept calling out to each other shrilly, raspingly. The motors stopped running one after another, making almost a silence, during which Chrisfield fell asleep. Something woke him. He was stiff with cold and terrified. For a moment he thought he had been left alone, that the company had gone on, for there was no one touching him. Overhead was a droning as of gigantic mosquitoes, growing fast to a loud throbbing. He heard the lieutenant's voice calling shrilly, Sgt. Higgins! Sgt. Higgins! The lieutenant stood out suddenly black against a sheet of flame. Chrisfield could see his fatigue cap a little on one side, and his trench coat drawn in tight at the waist and sticking out stiffly at the knees. He was shaken by the explosion. Everything was black again. Chrisfield got to his feet, his ears ringing. The column was moving on. He heard moaning near him in the darkness. The tramp of feet and jingle of equipment drowned all other sound. He could feel his shoulders becoming raw under the tugging of the pack. Now and then the flare from airplane bombs behind him showed up erect trucks on the side of the road. Somewhere machine guns fluttered. But the column tramp dawn weighed down by the packs, by the deadening exhaustion. The turbulent, flaring darkness was calming to the gray of dawn when Chrisfield stopped marching. His eyelids stung as if his eyeballs were flaming hot. He could not feel his feet and legs. The guns continued incessantly like a hammer beating on his head. He was walking very slowly in a single file, now and then stumbling against the man ahead of him. There was earth on both sides of him, clay walls that dripped moisture. All at once he stumbled down some steps into a dugout where it was pitch black. An unfamiliar smell struck him, made him uneasy, but his thoughts seemed to reach him from out of a great distance. He groped to the wall. His knees struck against a bunk with blankets in it. In another second he was sunk fathoms deep in sleep. When he woke up his mind was very clear. The roof of the dugout was of logs. A bright spot far away was the door. He hoped desperately that he wasn't on duty. He wondered where Andy was. Then he remembered that Andy was crazy. A yellow dog, Judkins had called him. Sitting up with difficulty he undid his shoes and patees, wrapped himself in his blanket. All round him were snores and the deep breathing of exhausted man. He closed his eyes. He was being court-martialed. He stood with his hands at his sides before three officers at a table. All three had the same white faces with heavy blue jaws and eyebrows that met above the nose. They were reading things out of papers aloud, but although he strained his ears he couldn't make out what they were saying. All he could hear was a faint moaning. Something had a curious unfamiliar smell that troubled him. He could not stand still at attention, although the angry eyes of the officers stared at him from all round. Anderson? Sergeant Anderson, what's that smell? He kept asking in a small, whining voice. Please tell a fellow what that smell is. But the three officers at the table kept reading from their papers, and the moaning grew louder and louder in his ears until he shrieked aloud. There was a grenade in his hand. He pulled out the string and threw it, and he saw the lieutenant's trench coat stand out against a sheet of flame. Someone sprang at him. He was wrestling for his life with Anderson, who turned into a woman with huge flabby breasts. He crushed her to him and turned to defend himself against the three officers who came at him, their trench coats drawn in tightly at the waist until they looked like wasps. Everything faded. He woke up. His nostrils were still full of the strange, troubling smell. He sat on the edge of the bunk, wriggling in his clothes, for his body crawled with lice. Gee, it's funny to be in where the fritzies were not long ago, he heard a voice say. Kiddo were advancing, came another voice. But hell, this ain't no kind of an advance. I ain't seen a German yet. I can smell him, though, said Chris Field, getting suddenly to his feet. Sergeant Higgins' head appeared in the door. Fall in, he shouted. Then he added in his normal voice. It's up in Adam, fellas. Chris Field caught his patie on a clump of briars at the edge of the clearing and stood, kicking his leg back and forth to get it free. At last he broke away, the torn patie dragging behind him. Out in the sunlight in the middle of the clearing, he saw a man in olive drab kneeling beside something on the ground. A German lay face down with a red hole in his back. The man was going through his pockets. He looked up into Chris Field's face. Souvenirs, he said. What outfit are you in, buddy? 143rd, said the man, getting to his feet slowly. Where the hell are we? Damned if I know. The clearing was empty, except for the two Americans and the German with the hole in his back. In the distance they heard a sound of artillery and nearer the putt-putt-putt of isolated machine guns. The leaves of the trees about them, all shades of brown and crimson and yellow, danced in the sunlight. Say, that damn money ain't no good, is it? asked Chris Field. German money? Hell no. I got a watch that's a peach, though. The man held out a gold watch, looking suspiciously at Chris Field all the while through half-closed eyes. I saw a fellow had a gold-handled sword, said Chris Field. Where's that? Back there in the wood, he waved his hand vaguely. I've got to find my outfit. Coming along? Chris Field started towards the other edge of the clearing. Looks to me all right here, said the other man, lying down on the grass in the sun. The leaves rustled underfoot as Chris Field strode through the wood. He was frightened by being alone. He walked ahead as fast as he could, his patis still dragging behind him. He came to a barbed wire entanglement half-embedded in fallen beach-leaves. It had been partly cut in one place, but in crossing he tore his thigh on a barb. Taking off the torn patis, he wrapped it round the outside of his trousers and kept on walking, feeling a little blood trickle down his leg. Later he came to a lane that cut straight through the wood, where there were many ruts through the putty-colored mud puddles. Down the lane in a patch of sunlight he saw a figure, towards which he hurried. It was a young man with red hair and a pink and white face. By the gold bar on the collar of his shirt, Chris Field saw he was a lieutenant. He had no coat or hat, and there was a greenish slime all over the front of his clothes, as if he had lain on his belly in a mud puddle. Where are you going? Don't know, sir. All right, come along. The lieutenant started walking as fast as he could up the lane, swinging his arms wildly. Seen any machine-gun nests? Not a one. Hmm. He followed the lieutenant who walked so fast he had difficulty keeping up, splashing recklessly through the puddles. Where's the artillery? That's what I want to know, cried the lieutenant, suddenly stopping in his tracks and running a hand through his red hair. Where the hell's the artillery? He looked at Chris Field savagely out of ground, he looked at Chris Field savagely out of green eyes. No use advancing without artillery. He started walking faster than ever. All at once they saw sunlight ahead of them and all of drab uniforms. Machine guns started firing all around them in a sudden gust. Chris Field found himself running forward across a field full of stubble and sprouting clover among a group of men he did not know. The whip-like sound of rifles had chimed in with the stuttering of the machine guns. Little white clouds sailed above him in a blue sky, and in front of him was a group of houses that had the same color, white with lavender-gray shadows as the clouds. He was in a house with a grenade like a tin pineapple in each hand. The sudden loneliness frightened him again. Outside the house was a sound of machine gun firing, broken by the occasional bursting of a shell. He looked at the red-tiled roof and at a chromo of a woman nursing a child that hung on the white-washed wall opposite him. He was in a small kitchen. There was a fire in the hearth where something boiled in a black pot. Chris Field tiptoed over and looked in. At the bottom of the bubbling water he saw five potatoes. At the other end of the kitchen, between two broken chairs, was a door. Chris Field crept over to it, the tiles seeming to sway underfoot. He put his finger to the latch and took it off again suddenly. Holding in his breath, he stood a long time looking at the door. Then he pulled it open recklessly. A young man with fair hair was sitting at a table, his head resting on his hands. Chris Field felt a spurt of joy when he saw that the man's uniform was green. Very coolly he pressed the spring, held the grenade a second, and then threw it, throwing himself backwards into the middle of the kitchen. The light-haired man had not moved. His blue eyes still stared straight before him. In the street, Chris Field ran into a tall man who was running. The man clutched him by the arm and said, The barrage is moving up. What barrage? Our barrage, we've got to run, we're ahead of it. His voice came in wheezy pants. There were red splotches on his face. They ran together down the empty village street. As they ran, they passed the little red-haired lieutenant, who leaned against a whitewashed wall, his legs a mass of blood and torn cloth. He was shouting in a shrill delirious voice that followed them out along the open road. Where's the artillery? That's what I want to know. Where's the artillery? The woods were gray and dripping with dawn. Chris Field got stiffly to his feet from the pile of leaves where he had slept. He felt numb with cold and hunger, lonely and lost away from his outfit. All about him were men of another division. A captain with a sandy mustache was striding up and down with a blanket about him. On the road, just behind a clump of beech trees. Chris Field had watched him passing back and forth, back and forth, behind the wet, clustered trunks of the trees, ever since it had been light. Stamping his feet among the damped leaves, Chris Field strolled away from the group of men. No one seemed to notice him. The trees closed about him. He could see nothing but moist trees, gray-green and black, and the yellow leaves of saplings that cut off the view in every direction. He was wondering, Dully, why he was walking off that way. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a vague idea of finding his outfit. Sergeant Higgins and Andy and Judkins and Small, he wondered what had become of them. He thought of the company lined up for mess, and the smell of greasy food that came from the Field kitchen. He was desperately hungry. He stopped and leaned against the moss-covered trunk of a tree. The deep scratch in his leg was throbbing, as if all the blood in his body beat through it. Now that his rustling footsteps had ceased, the woods were absolutely silent, except for the dripping of dew from the leaves and branches. He strained his ears to hear some other sound. Then he noticed that he was staring at a red tree full of small crab apples. He picked a handful greedily, but they were hard and sour and seemed to make him hungrier. The sour flavor in his mouth made him furiously angry. He kicked at the thin trunk of the tree, while tears smarted in his eyes. Swearing aloud in a whining, sing-song voice, he strode off through the woods with his eyes on the ground. Twigs snapped viciously in his face, crooked branches caught at him, but he plunged on. All at once he stumbled against something hard that bounced among the leaves. He stopped still, looking about him, terrified. Two grenades lay just under his foot. A little further on, a man was propped against a tree with his mouth open. Chrisfield thought at first he was asleep, as his eyes were closed. He looked at the grenades carefully. The fuses had not been sprung. He put one in each pocket, gave a glance at the man who seemed to be asleep, and strode off again, striking another alley in the woods, at the end of which he could see sunlight. The sky overhead was full of heavy purple clouds, tinged here and there with yellow. As he walked towards the patch of sunlight, the thought came to him that he ought to have looked in the pockets of the man he had just passed to see if he had any hard bread. He stood still a moment in hesitation, but started walking again doggedly towards the patch of sunlight. Something glittered in the irregular fringe of sun and shadow. A man was sitting hunched up on the ground with his fatigue cap pulled over his eyes, so that the little gold bar just caught the horizontal sunlight. Chrisfield's first thought was that he might have food on him. Say, Lieutenant! he shouted. Do you know where a fellow can get something to eat? The man lifted his head slowly. Chrisfield turned cold all over when he saw the white heavy face of Anderson. An unshaven beard was very black on his square chin. There was a long scratch clotted with dried blood from the heavy eyebrow across the left cheek to the corner of the mouth. Give me some water, buddy! said Anderson in a weak voice. Chrisfield handed him his canteen roughly in silence. He noticed that Anderson's arm was in a sling, and that he drank greedily, spilling the water over his chin and his wounded arm. Where's Colonel Evans? asked Anderson in a thin, petulant voice. Chrisfield did not reply, but stared at him sullenly. The canteen had dropped from his hand and lay on the ground in front of him. The water gleamed in the sunlight as it ran out among the russet leaves. A wind had come up, making the woods resound. A shower of yellow leaves dropped about them. First he was a corporal, then he was a sergeant, and now you're a lieutenant, said Chrisfield slowly. You'd better tell me where Colonel Evans is. You must know, he's up that road somewhere, said Anderson, struggling to get to his feet. Chrisfield walked away without answering. A cold hand was round the grenade in his pocket. He walked away slowly, looking at his feet. Suddenly he found he had pressed the spring of the grenade. He struggled to pull it out of his pocket. It stuck in the narrow pocket. His arm and his cold fingers that clutched the grenade seemed paralyzed. Then a warm joy went through him. He had thrown it. Anderson was standing up, swaying backwards and forwards. The explosion made the woods shake. A thick rain of yellow leaves came down. Anderson was flat on the ground. He was so flat he seemed to have sunk into the ground. Chrisfield pressed the spring of the other grenade and threw it with his eyes closed. It burst among the thick, new fallen leaves. A few drops of rain were falling. Chrisfield kept on along the lane, walking fast, feeling full of warmth and strength. The rain beat hard and cold against his back. He walked with his eyes to the ground. A voice in a strange language stopped him. A ragged man in green with a beard that was clotted with mud stood in front of him with his hands up. Chrisfield burst out laughing. Come along! he said. Quick! The man shambled in front of him. He was trembling so hard he nearly fell with each step. Chrisfield kicked him. The man shambled on without turning round. Chrisfield kicked him again, feeling the point of the man's spine and the soft flesh of his rump against his toes with each kick, laughing so hard all the while that he could hardly see where he was going. Halt! came a voice. I've got a prisoner, shouted Chrisfield, still laughing. He ain't much of a prisoner, said the man, pointing his band at the German. He's gone crazy, I guess. I'll take care of him. Ain't no use sending him back. All right! said Chrisfield, still laughing. Say, buddy, where can I get something to eat? I had nothing for a day and a half. There's a reconnoiter in squad up the line. They'll give you something. How's things going up that way? The man pointed up the road. God, I don't know. I ain't had nothing to eat for a day and a half. The warm smell of a stew rose to his nostrils from the mess kit. Chrisfield stood, feeling warm and important, filling his mouth with soft, greasy potatoes and gravy, while men about him asked him questions. Gradually he began to feel full and content and a desire to sleep came over him. But he was given a gun and had to start advancing again with the reconnoitering squad. The squad went cautiously up the same lane through the woods. Here's an officer done for, said the captain who walked ahead. He made a little clucking noise of distress with his tongue. Two of you fellows go back and get a blanket and take him to the crossroads. Poor fellow. The captain walked on again, still making the little clucking noises with his tongue. Chrisfield looked straight ahead of him. He did not feel lonely anymore, now that he was marching in ranks again. His feet beat the ground in time with the other feet. He would not have to think whether to go to the right or to the left. He would do as the others did. End of section eight.