 Section 3 of Three Soldiers. Part 2. The Metal Cools 1. It was a purplish dark outside the window. The rain fell steadily, making long flashing stripes on the cracked panes, beating a hard monotonous tattoo on the tin roof overhead. Fuseli had taken off his wet slicker, and stood in front of the window looking out dismally at the rain. Behind him was the smoking stove into which a man was poking wood, and beyond that a few broken folding chairs, on which soldiers sprawled in attitudes of utter boredom, and the counter where the Wyman stood with a set smile doling out chocolate to a line of men that filed past. Gee, you have to line up for everything here, don't you, if you saw him muttered. It's about all you do do in this hellhole, buddy, said a man beside him. The man pointed with his thumb at the window and said again, See that rain? Well, I've been in this camp three weeks, and it ain't stopped raining once. What do you think of that for a country? It certainly ain't like home, said Fuseli. I'm going to have some chocolate. Damn rotten! I might as well try it once. Fuseli slouched over to the end of the line, and stood waiting his turn. He was thinking of the steep streets of San Francisco, and the glimpses he used to get at the harbor full of yellow lights, the color of amber in a cigarette holder, as he went home from work through the blue dusk. He had begun to think of Mabe handing him the five pound box of candy, when his attention was distracted by the talk of the men behind him. The man next to him was speaking with a hurried, nervous intonation. Fuseli could feel his breath on the back of his neck. I'll be god damned, the man said. Was you there too? Where'd you get yours? In the leg. It's about all right, though. I ain't. I won't never be all right. The doctor says I'm all right now, but I know I'm not the lion fool. Some time, wasn't it? I'll be damned to hell if I do it again! I can't sleep at night thinking of the shape of the Fretzies' helmets. Have you ever thought that there was something about the shape of them goddamn helmets? Ain't they just ordinary shapes? Said Fuseli, half turning round. I seen him in the movies. He laughed apologetically. Listen to the rookie tub. He's seen him in the movies. Said the man with a nervous twitch in his voice, laughing a croaking little laugh. How long have you been in this country, buddy? Two days? Well, we've only been here two months, ain't we, tub? Four months. You're forgetting, kid. The Y-man turned his set smile on Fuseli while he filled his tin cup up with chocolate. How much? A franc. One of those looks like a quarter, said the Y-man, his well-fed voice full of amiable condescension. That's a hell of a lot for a cup of chocolate, said Fuseli. You're at the war, young man. Remember that, said the Y-man severely. You're lucky to get it at all. A cold chill gripped Fuseli's spine as he went back to the stove to drink the chocolate. Of course, he mustn't crab. He was in the war now. If the sergeant had heard him crabbing, it might have spoiled his chances for a corporeal ship. He must be careful. If he just watched out and kept on his toes, he'd be sure to get it. And why are there no more chocolate, I want to know? The nervous voice of the man who had stood in line behind Fuseli rose to a sudden shriek. Everybody looked around. The Y-man was moving his head from side to side in a flustered way, saying in a shrill little voice, I've told you there's no more. Go away. You ain't got no right to tell me to go away. You gotta get me some chocolate. You ain't never been in the front, you goddamn slacker. The man was yelling at the top of his lungs. He had hold of the counter with two hands and swayed from side to side. His friend was trying to pull him away. Look here, none of that. I'll report you, said the Y-man. Is there a non-commissioned officer in the hut? Go ahead, you can't do nothing. I can't ever have nothing done worse than what's been done to me already. The man's voice had reached a sing-song fury. Is there a non-commissioned officer in the room? The Y-man kept looking from side to side. His little eyes were hard and spiteful, and his lips were drawn up in a thin straight line. Keep quiet, I'll get him away, said the other man in a low voice. Can't you see he's not? A strange terror took hold of Fuseli. He hadn't expected things to be like that. When he had sat in the grandstand in the training camp and watched the jolly soldiers in khaki marching into towns, pursuing terrified huns across potato fields, saving Belgian milkmaids against picturesque backgrounds, does many of them come back that way? He asked a man beside him. Some do. It's this convalescent camp. The man and his friend stood side by side near the stove, talking in low voices. Pull yourself together, kid, the friend was saying. I'm all right, Tub. I'm all right now, Tub. The slacker got my goat, that was all. Fuseli was looking at him curiously. He had a yellow parchment face and a high gaunt forehead, going up to sparse, curly brown hair. His eyes had a glassy look about them when they met Fuseli's. He smiled amiably. Oh, there's the kid who's seen fritzies helmets in the movies. Come on, buddy, come and have a beer at the English canteen. Can you get beer? Sure, over in the English camp. They went out into the slanting rain. It was nearly dark, but the sky had a purplish red color that was reflected a little on the slanting sides of tents and on the roofs of the rows of sheds that disappeared into the rainy mist in every direction. A few lights gleamed, a very bright, polished yellow. They followed a boardwalk that splashed mud up from the puddles under the tramp of their heavy boots. At one place they flattened themselves against the wet flap of a tent and saluted as an officer passed waving a little cane jauntily. How long does a fellow usually stay in these rest camps? asked Fuseli. Depends on what's going on out there, said Tub, pointing carelessly to the sky beyond the peaks of the tents. You'll leave here soon enough. Don't you worry, buddy? said the man with the nervous voice. What are you in? Medical replacement unit. A medic, are you? Those boys didn't last long at the Chateau, did they, Tub? No, they didn't. Something inside Fuseli was protesting. All last out, though. All last out, though. Do you remember the fellows went out to get poor old Corporal Jones, Tub? I'll be goddamned if anybody ever found a button of their pants. He laughed his creaky little laugh. They got in the way of a torpedo. The wet canteen was full of smoke and a cozy steam of beer. It was crowded with red-faced men with shiny brass buttons on their khaki uniforms, among whom was a good sprinkling of lanky Americans. Tommy's, said Fuseli to himself. After standing in line awhile, Fuseli's cup was handed back to him across the counter, foaming with beer. Hello, Fuseli? Meadville clapped him on the shoulder. You found the liquor pretty damn quick, looks like to me. Fuseli laughed. May I sit with you, fellows? Sure, come along, said Fuseli proudly. These guys have been to the front. You have, asked Meadville. The Huns are pretty good scrappers, they say. Tell me, do you use your rifle much or is it mostly big gun work? Nah, after all the months I spent learning how to drew with my goddamn rifle, I'll be a sucker if I've used it once. I'm in the grenade squad. Someone at the end of the room had started singing. Oh, Mademoiselle from Arm and Tears, par-le-vous! The man with the nervous voice went on talking while the song wrote about them. I don't spend a night without thinking of them funny helmets the Fritzies wear. Have you ever thought that there was something goddamn funny about the shape of them helmets? Can the helmets, kid, said his friend? You told us all about them once. I ain't told you why I can't forget them, have I? A German officer crossed the Rhine par-le-vous. A German officer crossed the Rhine, he loved the woman, and liked the wine hanky-panky par-le-vous. Listen to this, fellows, said the man in his twitching, nervous voice, staring straight into Fuseli's eyes. We made a little attack to straighten out our trenches a bit just before I got winged. Our barrage cut off a bit of Fritzies trench and we ran right ahead, just about dawn and occupied it. I'll be goddamn'd if it wasn't as quiet as a Sunday morning at home. It was, said his friend. And I had a bunch of grenades and a fellow came running up to me whispering, there's a bunch of Fritzies playing cards and a dugout. They don't seem to know they're captured. We'd better take them prisoners. Prisoner's hell, says I. We'll go and clear the buggers out. So we crept along the steps and looked down. The song had started again. Oh, Mademoiselle from Barmentier's par-le-vous. Their helmets looked so damn like toadstools I came near laughing. And they sat round the lamp laying down the cards, serious like the way I've seen Germans doing the rascal at home. Of the women I like the wine par-le-vous. I lay there looking at them for a hell of a time, and then I clicked a grenade and tossed it gently down the steps. And all those funny helmets like toadstools popped up in the air and somebody gave a yell and the light went out and the damn grenade went off. Then I let them have the rest of them and went away because one of them was still moaning and like, it was about that time they let their barrage down on us and I got mine. Thanks for having a hell of a time, par-le-vous. And the first thing I thought of when I woke up was how those goddamn helmets looked. It upsets a fella to think of a thing like that. His voice ended in a wine like the broken voice of a child that has been beaten. She'd leave you pulling yourself together, kid, said his friend. I know what I need, Tub. I need a woman. You know where you get one? asked Meadville. I'd like to get me a nice little French girl and rainy night like this. It must be a hell of a ways to the town. They say it's full of MPs, too, said Fusali. I know a way, said the man with the nervous voice. Come on, Tub. No, I've had enough of these goddamn frogwomen. They all left the canteen. As the two men went off down the side of the building, Fusali heard the nervous twitching voice through the metallic patter of the rain. I can't find no way of forgetting how funny the helmets looked all round the lamp. I can't find no way! Bill Gray and Fusali pooled their blankets and slept together. They lay on the hard floor of the tent very close to each other, listening to the rain pattering endlessly on the drenched canvas that slanted above their heads. Hell, Bill, I'm getting pneumonia, said Fusali, clearing his nose. That's the only thing that scares me in the whole goddamn business. I'd hate to die of sickness, and they say another kid's kicked off with what? What did they call him? Meningitis. Was that what was the matter with Stein? The corporal won't say. Oh, Corp looks sort of sick himself, said Fusali. It's this rotten climate, whispered Bill Gray, in the middle of a fit of coughing. For cat's sake, quit that coffin. Let a fellow sleep, came a voice from the other side of the tent. Go and get a room in a hotel if you don't like it. That's it, Bill, tell him where to get off. If you fellas don't quit yelling, I'll put the whole blame lot of you on KP, came the sergeant's good-natured voice. Don't you know the taps is blown? The tent was silent, except for the fast patter of the rain and Bill Gray's coughing. That sergeant gives me a pain in the neck, muttered Bill Gray peevishly when his coughing had stopped, wriggling about under the blankets. After a while Fusali said in a very low voice, so that no one but his friend should hear. Say, Bill, ain't it different from what we thought it was going to be? Yeah. I mean, fellas don't seem to think about beating on's at all, they're so busy crabbing on everything. It's the guys higher up that doesn't think it, said Gray grandiloquently. Hell, but I thought it'd be exciting like in the movies. I guess that was a lot of talk. Maybe. Fusali went to sleep on the hard floor, feeling the comfortable warmth of Gray's body along the side of him, hearing the endless, monotonous patter of the rain on the drenched canvas above his head. He tried to stay awake a minute to remember what Mabe looked like, but sleep closed down on him suddenly. The bugle wrenched them out of their blankets before it was light. The air was raw and full of white mist that was cold as snow against their faces still warm from sleep. The corporal called the roll, lighting matches to read the list. When he dismissed the formation, the sergeant's voice was heard from the tent, where he lay still rolled in his blankets. Say, Corp, go and tell Fusali to straighten out Lieutenant Stanford's room at eight sharp in Officer's Barracks number four. Did you hear Fusali? All right, said Fusali. His blood boiled up suddenly. This was the first time he'd had to do servants' work. He hadn't joined the army to be a slavey then he'd damned first loot. It was against army regulations anyway. He'd go and kick. He wasn't going to be a slavey. He walked towards the door of the tent, thinking what he'd say to the sergeant. But he noticed the corporal coughing into his handkerchief with an expression of pain on his face. He turned and strolled away. It would get him in wrong if he started kicking like that. Much better shut his mouth and put up with it. The poor old Corp couldn't last long at this rate. No, it wouldn't do to get in wrong. At eight, Fusali, with a broom in his hand, a dull fury pounding and fluttering within him, knocked on the unpainted, bored door. Who's that? To clean the room, sir, said Fusali. Come back in about twenty minutes, came the voice of the Lieutenant. All right, sir. Fusali leaned against the back of the barracks and smoked a cigarette. The air stung his hands as if they had been scraped by a nutmeg grater. Twenty minutes passed slowly. Despair seized hold of him. He was so far from anyone who cared about him, so lost in the vast machine. He was telling himself that he'd never get on, would never get up where he could show what he was good for. He felt as if he were in a treadmill. Day after day it would be like this. The same routine, the same helplessness. He looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed. He picked up his broom and moved round to the Lieutenant's room. Come in, said the Lieutenant carelessly. He was in his shirt sleeves, shaving. A pleasant smell of shaving soap filled the dark clapboard room, which had no furniture but three cots and some officer's trunks. He was a red-faced young man with flabby cheeks and dark, straight eyebrows. He had taken command of the company only a day or two before. Looks like a decent feller about Fusali. What's your name? asked the Lieutenant, speaking into the small nickel mirror while he ran the safety razor obliquely across his throat. He stuttered a little. To Fusali he seemed to speak like an Englishman. Fusali! Italian parent, did I presume? Yes, said Fusali sullenly, dragging one of the cots away from the wall. Parla italiano? You mean do I speak Italian? No, sir, said Fusali emphatically. I was born in Frisco. Indeed. But give me some more water, will you please? When Fusali came back he stood with his broom between his knees, blowing on his hands that were blue and stiff from carrying the heavy bucket. The Lieutenant was dressed and was hooking the top hook of the uniform carefully. The collar made a red mark on his pink throat. All right, when you're through, report back to the company. The Lieutenant went out, drawing on a pair of khaki-coloured gloves with a satisfied and important gesture. Fusali walked back slowly to the tents where the company was quartered, looking about him at the long lines of barracks, gaunt and dripping in the mist. At the big tin sheds of the cook-shacks where the cooks and KPs and greasy blue denims were slouching about amid a steam of cooking food. Something of the gesture with which the Lieutenant drew on his gloves caught in the mind of Fusali. He had seen people make gestures like that in the movies. Stout dignified people in evening suits. The president of the company that owned the optical goods store where he had worked at home in Frisco had had something of that gesture about him. And he pictured himself drawing on a pair of gloves that way. Importantly, finger by finger, with a little wave of self-satisfaction when the gesture was completed. He'd have to get that corporal ship. There's a long, long trail of winding through no man's land in France. The company sang lustily as it splashed through the mud down a grey road between high fences covered with great tangles of barbed wire, above which peaked the ends of warehouses and the chimneys of factories. The Lieutenant and the top sergeant walked side by side, chatting, now and then singing a little of the song in a deprecating way. The corporal sang, his eyes sparkling with delight. Even the somber sergeant, who rarely spoke to anyone, sang. The company strode along, its ninety-six legs splashing jauntly through the deep, putty-coloured puddles. The pacts swayed merrily from side to side, as if it were they and not the legs that were walking. There's a long, long trail of winding through no man's land in France. At last they were going somewhere. They had separated from the contingent they had come over with. They were all alone now. They were going to be put to work. The Lieutenant strode along, importantly. The sergeant strode along, importantly. The corporal strode along, importantly. The right guard strode along more importantly than anyone. A sense of importance, of something tremendous to do, animated the company like wine, made the pacts and the belts seem less heavy, made their necks and shoulders less stiff from struggling with the weight of the pacts, made the ninety-six legs tramp jauntly in spite of the oozy mud and the deep, putty-coloured puddles. It was cold in the dark shed of the freight station where they waited. Some gas lamps flickered feebly high up among the rafters, lighting up in a ghastly way white piles of ammunition boxes and ranks and ranks of shells that disappeared in the darkness. The raw air was full of coal smoke and the smell of freshly cut boards. The captain and the top sergeant had disappeared. The men sat about, huddled in groups, sinking as far as they could into their overcoats, stamping their numb, wet feet on the mud-covered cement of the floor. The sliding doors were shut. Through them came a monotonous sound of cars shunting, of buffers bumping against buffers, and now and then the shrill whistle of an engine. Hell, the French railroad's a rotten, said someone. How do you know? snapped Eisenstein, who sat on a box away from the rest with his lean face in his hands, staring at his mud-covered boots. Look at this! Bill Gray made a disgusted gesture towards the ceiling. Gas! Doesn't even have electric light! Their trains run faster than ours, said Eisenstein. The hell they do? Why, a fellow back in that rest camp told me that it took four or five days to get anywhere. It was stuffin' you, said Eisenstein. They used to run the fastest trains in the world in France. Not so fast as the 20th century. God damn, I'm a railroad man and I know! I want five men to help me sort out the eats, said the top sergeant, coming suddenly out of the shadows. Do you sell a Gray, Eisenstein, Meadville, Williams? All right, come along. Say, Sarge, this guy says that frog trains are faster than our trains. What do you think of that? The sergeant put on his comic expression. Everybody got ready to laugh. Well, if he'd rather take the side door pulmons, we're going to get aboard tonight than the sunset limited, he's welcome. I've seen him, new fellas haven't. Everybody laughed. The top sergeant turned confidentially to the five men who followed him into a small, well-lighted room that looked like a freight office. We've got to sort out the grub, fellas. See those cases? That's three days rations for the outfit. I want to sort it into three lots, one for each car, understand? Fuseli pulled open one of the boxes. The cans of bully beef flew under his fingers. He kept looking out of the corner of his eye at Eisenstein, who seemed very skillful in a careless way. The top sergeant stood beaming at them with his legs wide apart. Once he said something in a low voice to the corporal. Fuseli thought he caught the words, private's first class, and his heart started thumping hard. In a few minutes the job was done, and everybody stood about lighting cigarettes. Well, fellas, said Sergeant Jones, the somber man who rarely spoke. I certainly didn't reckon when I used to be teaching and preaching in tendon Sunday school and the like that I'd come to be using cuss words, but I think we got a damn good company. Oh, we'll have you saying worse things than damn when we get you out on the front with a goddamn German aeroplane dropping bombs on you, with the top sergeant slapping him on the back. Now, I want you five men to look out for the grub. Fuseli's chest swelled. The company will be in charge with the corporal for the night. Sergeant Jones and I have got to be with the lieutenant. Understand? They all walked back to the dingy room where the rest of the company waited huddled in their coats, trying to keep their importance from being too obvious in their step. I've really started now, thought Fuseli to himself. I've really started now. The bare freight car clattered and rumbled monotonously over the rails. A bitter cold wind blew up through the cracks in the grimy, splintered boards of the floor. The men huddled in the corners of the car, curled up together like puppies in a box. It was pitch black. Fuseli lay half asleep, his head full of curious fragmentary dreams, feeling through his legs the aching cold and the unending clattering rumble of the wheels and the bodies and arms and legs muffled in coats and blankets pressing against him. He woke up with a start. His teeth were chattering. The clanking rumble of wheels seemed to be in his head. His head was being dragged along, bumping over cold iron rails. Someone lighted a match. The freight car's black swaying walls, the packs piled in the corner, the bodies heaped in the corners where, out of khaki masses here and there, gleamed an occasional white face or a pair of eyes, all showed clear for a moment and then vanished again in the utter blackness. Fuseli pillowed his head in the crook of someone's arm and tried to go to sleep, but the scraping rumble of wheels over rails was too loud. He stayed with open eyes, staring into the blackness, trying to draw his body away from the blast of cold air but blew up through a crack in the floor. When the first grayness began filtering into the car, they all stood up and stamped and pounded each other and wrestled to get warm. When it was nearly light, the train stopped and they opened the sliding doors. They were in a station, a foreign-looking station where the walls were plastered with unfamiliar advertisements. V-E-R-S-A-I-L-L-E-S Fuseli spelled out the name. For sales, said Eisenstein, that's where the kings of France used to live. The train started moving again slowly. On the platform stood the top sergeant. How'd you sleep? he shouted as the car passed him. Say, Fuseli, better start some grub going. All right, Sarge, said Fuseli. The sergeant ran back to the front of the car and climbed on. With a delicious feeling of leadership, Fuseli divided up the bread and the cans of bully beef and the cheese. Then he sat on his pack eating dry bread and unsavory beef, whistling joyfully while the train rumbled and clattered along through a strange misty green countryside. Whistling joyfully because he was going to the front where there would be glory and excitement. Whistling joyfully because he felt he was getting along in the world. It was noon. A pallid little sun like a toy balloon hung low in the reddish-gray sky. The train had stopped on a siding in the middle of a russet plane. Yellow poplars, faint as mist, rose slender against the sky along a black shining stream that swirled beside the track. In the distance a steeple and a few red roofs were etched faintly in the grayness. The men stood about balancing first on one foot and then on the other, stamping to get warm. On the other side of the river, an old man with an ox cart had stopped and was looking sadly at the train. Say, where's the front? Somebody shouted to him. Everybody took up the cry. Say, where's the front? The old man waved his hand, shook his head and shouted to the oxen. The oxen took up again their quiet processional gait, and the old man walked ahead of them, his eyes on the ground. Say, the frog's dumb. Say, Dan, said Bill Gray, strolling away from a group of many he'd been talking to. These guys say we're going to the Third Army. Say, fellers, shouted Vucelli. They say we're going to the Third Army. Where's that? In the Oregon forest ventured somebody. That's how the front ended. At that moment the lieutenant strode by. A long cocky muffler was thrown carelessly around his neck and hung down his back. Look here, men, he said severely. The orders are to stay in the cars. The men slunk back into the cars sullenly. A hospital train passed, clanking slowly over the cross tracks. Vucelli looked fixedly at the dark enigmatic windows, at the red crosses, at the orderlies in white who leaned out of the doors, waving their hands. Somebody noticed that there were scars of the green paint of the last car. The Huns had been shooting at it. Do you hear that? The Huns tried to shoot out that hospital train. Vucelli remembered the pamphlet, German atrocities. He had read one night at the YMCA. His mind became suddenly filled with pictures of children with their arms cut off, of babies spitted on bayonets, of women strapped on tables and violated by soldier after soldier. He thought of Mayb. He wished he were in a combatant service. He wanted to fight, fight. He pictured himself shooting dozens of men in green uniforms, and he thought of Mayb reading about it in the papers. He'd have to try to get into a combatant service. No, he couldn't stay in the medics. The train had started again. Misty russet fields slipped by and dark clumps of trees that gyrated slowly, waving branches of yellow and brown leaves and patches of black lacework against the reddish-gray sky. Vucelli was thinking of the good chance he had of getting to be corporal. At night, a dim-lighted station platform, the company waited in two lines, each man sitting on his pack. On the opposite platform, crowds of little men in blue with moustaches and long, soiled overcoats that reached almost to their feet were shouting and singing. Vucelli watched them with a faint disgust. Gee, they got funny-looking helmets, ain't they? They're the best fighters in the world, said Eisenstein. Not that that's saying much about a man. Say, that's an MP, said Bill Gray, catching Vucelli's arm. Let's go ask him how near the front we are. I heard guns a minute ago. Did you? I guess we're in for it now, said Vucelli. Say, buddy, how near the front are we? They spoke together excitedly. The front, said the MP, who is a red-faced Irishman with a crushed nose. You're way back in the middle of France. The MP spat disgustedly. You fellas ain't never going to the front, don't you worry. Hell, said Vucelli. I'll be goddamn'd if I don't get there somehow, said Bill Gray, squaring his jaw. A fine rain was falling on the unprotected platform. On the other side, the little man in blue were singing a song Vucelli could not understand, drinking out of their ungainly-looking canteens. Vucelli announced the news to the company. Everybody clustered round him, cursing. The faint sense of importance it gave him did not compensate for the feeling he had of being lost in the machine, of being as helpless as a sheep in a flock. Hours passed. They stamped about the platform in the fine rain, or sat in a row on their packs, waiting for orders. A gray belt appeared behind the trees. The platform began to take on a silvery gleam. They sat in a row on their packs, waiting. End of Section 3. Section 4 of Three Soldiers. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by M.B. Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos. Section 4. 2. The company stood at attention, lined up outside of their barracks, a long wooden shack covered with tarpaper. In front of them was a row of disheveled plain trees with white trunks that looked like ivory in the faint, ruddy sunlight. Then there was a rutted road on which stood a long line of French motor trucks with hunched gray backs like elephants. Beyond these were more plain trees, and another row of barracks covered with tarpaper, outside of which other companies were lined up standing at attention. A bugle was sounding far away. The lieutenant stood at attention very stiffly. Fuseli's eyes followed the curves of his brilliantly polished patees up to the braid on his sleeves. Parade rest shouted the lieutenant in a muffled voice. Feet and hands moved in unison. Fuseli was thinking of the town. After retreat you could go down the irregular cobbled street from the old fairground where the camp was to a little square where there was a gray stone fountain and a gin mill where you could sit at an oak table and have beer and eggs and fried potatoes served you by a girl with red cheeks and plump white appetizing arms. Attention! Feet and hands moved in unison again. They could hardly hear the bugle, it was so faint. Then I have some appointments to announce, said the lieutenant, facing the company and taking on an easy conversational tone. At rest! You've done good work in this storehouse here, men. I'm glad I have such a willing bunch of men under me, and I certainly hope that we can manage to make as many promotions as possible. As many as possible. Fuseli's hands were icy and his heart was pumping the blood so fast to his ears that he could hardly hear. The following privates to private first class read the lieutenant in a routine voice. Gray, Appleton, Williams, Eisenstein, Porter. Eisenstein will be company clerk. Fuseli was almost ready to cry. His name was not on the list. The sergeant's voice came after a long pause, smooth as velvet. You forgot Fuseli, sir. Oh, so I did. The lieutenant laughed. A small, dry laugh. And Fuseli. Gee, I must write Mabe tonight, if Fuseli was saying to himself. She'll be a proud kid when she gets that letter. Company dismissed! shouted the sergeant genially. Oh, Madder Barzell from Armenteers, Parleau. Oh, Madder Barzell from Armenteers, struck up the sergeant in his mellow voice. The front room of the cafe was full of soldiers. Their cocky hid the worn oak benches and the edges of the square tables and the red tiles of the floor. They clustered round the tables where glasses and bottles gleamed vaguely through the tobacco smoke. They stood in front of the bar drinking out of bottles, laughing, scraping their feet on the floor. A stout girl with red cheeks and plump white arms moved contentedly among them, carrying away empty bottles, bringing back full ones, taking the money to a grim old woman with a gray face and eyes like bits of jet, who stared carefully at each coin, fingered it with her gray hands and dropped it reluctantly into the cash drawer. In the corner sat sergeant Ulster with a flush on his face and the corporal who had been on the Red Sox outfield, and another sergeant, a big man with black hair and a black mustache, about them clustered with approbation and respect in their faces, Fuseli, Bill Gray, and Meadville, the cowboy, and Earl Williams, the blue-eyed and yellow-haired drug clerk. Oh, the yanks are having a hell of a time, Parleve! They pounded their bottles on the table in time to the song. It's a good job, the top sergeant said, suddenly interrupting the song. You didn't worry about that, fellas. I saw to it that we got a good job. And about getting to the front, you didn't worry about that. We'll all get to the front soon enough. Tell me, this war is going to last ten years. I guess we'll all be generals by that time, eh, Sarge? said Williams. But man, I wish I was back jerking soda water. It's a great life if you don't weaken, murmured Fuseli automatically. But I'm beginning to weaken, said Williams. Man, I'm homesick. I don't care who knows it. I wish I could get to the front and be done with it. Say, have a heart. You need a drink, said the top sergeant, banging his fist on the table. Say, ma'am's owl! Mame shows! Mame shows! I didn't know you could talk French, Sarge, said Fuseli. French, hell! said the top sergeant. Williams is the boy who can talk French. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? That's all I know. Everybody laughed. Hey, ma'am's owl! cried the top sergeant. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? Oui, oui, champagne! Everybody laughed uproariously. The girl slapped his head, good-naturedly. At that moment, a man stamped noisily into the café. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a loose English tunic who had a swinging swagger that made the glasses ring on all the tables. He was humming under his breath, and there was a grin on his broad red face. He went up to the girl and pretended to kiss her, and she laughed and talked familiarly with him in French. There's wild Dan Colehan, said the dark-haired sergeant. Say, Dan! Dan! Here, Your Honor! Come over here and have a drink. We're going to have some fizzy, never known to refuse. They made room for him on the bench. Well, I'm confined to barracks, said Dan Colehan. Look at me! He laughed and gave his head a curious, swift jerk to one side. Comfrey! Ain't you scared they'll nab you? said Fusali. Nab me! Hell, they can't do nothing to me. I've had three court-martials already, and they're getting a fourth up on me. Dan Colehan pushed his head to one side and laughed. I got a friend. My old boss is captain, and he's going to fix it up. I used to alley around politics, Shea Moy. Comfrey! The champagne came, and Dan Colehan popped the cork up to the ceiling with dexterous red fingers. I was just wondering who was going to give me a drink, he said. Ain't had any pay since Christ was a corporal. I've forgotten what it looks like. The champagne fizzed into the beer glasses. This is the life, said Fusali. You're damn right, buddy, if you don't let them ride you, said Dan. What they got you're up for now, Dan? Murder. Murder? Hell, how's that? That is, if that bloke dies. The hell you say? It all started by that goddamn convoy down from Naat. Bill reasoned me. They called us the Shock Troops. Hey, Marie! Angkor Champagne, Boku! I was in the ambulance service then. God knows what rotten service I'm in now. Our section was on repo, and they sent out some of us fellas down to Naat to fetch a convoy of cars back to Sondre Corps. We started out like regular races, just the chassis, Savvy. Bill reasoned me was the goddamn tail of the parade, and the loot was a hell of a blockhead that didn't know if he was coming or going. What else Naat, said the top sergeant, as if he had just slipped his mind. On the coast, answered Fusali, I seen it on the map. Naat's way off to Hell and Gone anyway, said Wild Dan Kohen, taking a gulp of champagne that he held in his mouth a moment, making his mouth move like a cow ruminating. And as Bill reasoned me was the tail of the parade, and there was a lot of cafes and little gin mills, Bill reasoned me had stopped off every now and then to have a little drink and say bonjour to the girls and talk to the people, and then we go like a bat out of Hell to catch up. Well, I don't know if we went too fast for them or if they lost the road or what, but we never saw that goddamn convoy in the time we went on or not. Then we thought we might as well see a bit of the country, Comfrey, and we did goddamn it. We ended up in Orléans, sows to the girls, and without any gas and with an MP climbing up on the dashboard. Did they nab you then? Not a bit of it, said Wild Dan Kohen, jerking his head to one side. They gave us gas and commutation of rations and told us to go on in the morning. You see, we put up a good line of talk, Comfrey. Well, we went to the swankiest restaurant. You see, we had on those bloody British uniforms they gave us when the OD gave out, and the MPs didn't know just what sort of birds we were. So we went and ordered up a regular meal on lots of van rouge and van blank and drank a few cognacs, and before we knew it, we were eating dinner with two captains and a sergeant. One of the captains was the drunkest man I ever did see. Good kid. We all had dinner, and Bill Reese says, let's go for a joy ride. And the captain says, fine, and the sergeant would have said, fine, but he was so goggle-eyed drunk he couldn't. And we started off. Say, fellas, I'm dry as hell. Let's order up another bottle. Sure, said everyone. Uncle Champagne, Marie Jean-Ti. Well, he went on. We went like a battle of hell along a good-state road, and it was all fine until one of the captains thought we ought to have a race. We did, compree. The flippers flipped all right, but the hell of it was, we got so excited about the race, we forgot about the sergeant, and he fell off and nobody missed him. And at last we pull up before a gin mill, and one captain says, where's the sergeant? And the other captain says, there hadn't been no sergeant. And we all had a drink on that, and one captain kept saying, imagination never was a sergeant. I'd never associate it with a sergeant. Would I loo tenant? He kept on calling me loo tenant. Well, that was how they got this new charge against me. Somebody picked up the sergeant, and he got concussion in the brain, and there's hell to pay. And if the poor bugger croaks, I'm it, compree. About that time the captain start wanting to go to Paris, and we said we'd take him. And so we put all the gas in my car, the four of us climbed on that goddamn chassis, and off we went like a bat out of hell. It had all been fine if I wasn't looking cross-eyed. We piled up in about two minutes on one of those nice little stone piles, and there we were. We all got up, and one of the captains had his arm broke, and there was hell to pay. Where's the loo's in the sergeant? So we walked on down the road. I don't know how it got to be daylight, but we got to some hell of a town or other, and there was two MPs ready to meet us. Compre? Well, we didn't mess around with them captains. We just lit off down a side street and got into a little cafe, and went back and had a hell of a lot of cafe au lait. That made us feel sort of good, and I said to Bill, Bill, we've got to get to headquarters and tell them that we accidentally smashed up our car before the MPs get busy. And he says, you're goddamn right. And at that minute I see an MP throw a crack in the door coming into the cafe. We lit out into the garden and made for the wall. We got over that, although we left a good piece of my pants in the broken glass. But the hell it was, the MP got over too, and they had their pop guns out. And the last I saw of Bill Rees was there was a big fat woman in a pink dress washing clothes in a big tub, and poor old Bill Rees runs head on into her, and over they both goes into the wash tub. The MPs got him all right. But that's how I got away. And the last I saw of Bill Rees, he was squirming about on top of the wash tub like he was swimming, and the fat woman was sitting on the ground shaking her fist at him. Bill Rees was the best buddy I ever had. He paused and poured the rest of the champagne in his glass, and wiped the sweat off his face with his big red hand. You ain't stringin' us are you, asked for you silly. You just ask Lieutenant Whitehead, who's defending me in the court martial string in your... I've been in the ring, kid, and you can bet your bottom dollar that a man's been in the ring you'll tell the truth. Go on, Dan, said the Sergeant. And I never heard a word about Bill Rees since. I guess they got him into the trenches and made short work of him. Dan Kohan paused to light a cigarette. Well, one of the MPs follows after me and starts shooting. And don't you believe I ran? Gee, I was scared. But I was in luck, because a Frenchman had just started his camion and I jumped in and said that John Darmore after me. He was white, that frog was. He shot the juicer and went off like a bat out of hell. And there was a hell of a lot of traffic on the road because there was some damn full attack or other going on. So I got up to Paris and then it had all been fine if I hadn't met up with a Jane I knew. I had 100 francs on me and so we raised hell until one day we was having dinner in the café to Paris. Both of us sort of jagged up and we didn't have enough money to pay the bill and Janey made a run for it. But an MP got me and there was hell to pay, compere. But they put me in the Bastille, great place. Then they shipped me off to some damn camp or other and gave me a gun and made me drill for a week. And then they packed a whole gang of us, all AWOLs, into a train for the front. That was nearly the end of Little Daniel again. But when I was in Vitrilo-François I chucked my rifle out of one window and jumped out of the other and got on the train back to Paris and went and reported to headquarters how I'd smashed the car and been in the Bastille and all and they were sore as hell at the MPs and sent me out to a section and all went fine until I got ordered back and had to allay down to this goddamn camp. And now I don't know what they're going to do with me. Gee whiz! It's a great war, I tell you, it's a great war. I wouldn't have missed it. Across the room, someone was singing. Let's drive them out, said the top sergeant boisterously. Oh, mademoiselle from Arment here, Palaibu. Well, I've got to get the hell out of here, said wild Dan Cohen after a minute. I've got a Jane waiting for me. I'm all fit. Compris? He swaggered out, singing Bonsoir, ma chérie, comment elle est vous si vous voulez coucher avec moi? The door slammed behind him, leaving the café quiet. Many men had left. Madame had taken up her knitting and Marie of the Plump White Arm sat beside her, leaning her head back among the bottles that rose in tears behind the bars. Fuseli was on the train Fuseli was staring at a door on one side of the bar. Men kept opening it and looking in and closing it again with a peculiar expression on their faces. Now and then someone would open it with a smile and go into the next room, shuffling his feet and closing the door carefully behind him. Say, I wonder what they've got there, said the top sergeant who had been staring at the door. Much be looked into, much be looked into, he added, laughing drunkenly. I don't know, said Fuseli. The champagne was humming in his head like a fly against a windowpane. He felt very bold and important. The top sergeant got to his feet unsteadily. Corporal, take charge of the colors, he said, and walked to the door. He opened it a little, peeked in, winked elaborately to his friends and skipped into the other room, and opened the door carefully behind him. The corporal went over next. He said, well, I'll be damned, and walked straight in, leaving the door ajar. In a moment it was closed from the inside. Come on, Bill, let's see what the hell they got there, said Fuseli. All right, old kid, said Bill Gray. They went together over to the door. Fuseli opened it and looked in. He let out a breath through his teeth with a whistling sound. Gee, come in, Bill, he said, giggling. The room was small, nearly filled up by a dining table with a red cloth. On the mantle above the empty fireplace were candlesticks with dangling crystals that glittered red and yellow and purple in the lamp-light, in front of a cracked mirror that seemed a window into another, dingier room. The paper was peeling off the damp walls, giving a mortuary smell of mildewed plaster that not even the reek of beer and tobacco had done away with. Look at her, Bill! Ain't she got style? whispered Fuseli. Bill Gray grunted. Say, do you think that Jane that fellow was telling us he raised hell within Paris was like that? At the end of the table, leaning on her elbows, was a woman with black, frizzy hair cut short that stuck out from her head in all directions. Her eyes were dark and her lips red with a faint, swollen look. She looked with a certain defiance at the men who stood about the walls and sat at the table. The men stared at her silently. A big man with red hair and a heavy jaw who sat next to her kept edging up nearer. Someone knocked against the table, making the bottles and liqueur glasses clustered in the center jingle. Clean, she's got bobbed hair, said the man next to you, Sully. The woman said something in French. Only one man understood it. His laugh rang hollowly in the silent room and stopped suddenly. The woman looked attentively at the faces round her for a moment, shrugged her shoulders and began straightening the ribbon on the hat she held in her lap. How the hell she get in here? I thought the MPs ran them out of town the minute they got here, but they didn't. The woman continued plucking at her hat. Yuvane Parry said a boy with a soft voice who sat near her. He had blue eyes and a milky complexion, faintly tanned that went strangely with the rough red and brown faces in the room. We, de Paris, she said after a pause, glancing suddenly in the boy's face. She's a liar, I can tell you that, said the red-haired man who by this time had moved his chair very close to the woman's. You told him you came from Marseille and him you came from Lyon, said the boy with the milky complexion smiling genuinely, Frémont de Ouvanieveux. I come from everywhere, she said, and tossed the hair back from her face. Traveled a lot, asked the boy again. A feller told me, said Fuseli de Bill Grey, that he talked to a girl like that who'd been to Turkey and Egypt, I bet that girl's seen some life. The woman jumped to her feet suddenly screaming with rage. The man with the red hair moved away as sheepishly. Then he lifted his large, dirty hands in the air. Camerad, he said. Nobody laughed. The room was silent except for feet scraping occasionally on the floor. She put her hat on and took a little box from the chain bag in her lap and began powdering her face. Making faces into the mirror she held in the palm of her hand. The men stared at her. Guess she thinks she's the queen of the may, said one man, getting to his feet. He leaned across the table and spat into the fireplace. I'm going back to Barracks. He turned to the woman and shouted in a voice full of hatred. Bonsoir! The woman was putting the powder puff away in her jet bag. She did not look up. The door closed sharply. Come along, said the woman suddenly, tossing her head back. Come along one at a time. Who will go with me first? Nobody spoke. The men stared at her silently. There was no sound except that of feet scraping occasionally on the floor. Three. The oatmeal flopped heavily into the mess kit. Fuselli's eyes were still glued together with sleep. He sat at the dark, greasy bench and took a gulp of the scalding coffee that smelt vaguely of dish rags. That woke him up a little. There was little talk in the mess-shack. The men, that the bugle had wrenched out of their blankets but fifteen minutes before, sat in rows eating sullenly or blinking at each other through the misty darkness. You could hear feet scraping in the ashes of the floor and mess-kits clattering against the tables and here and there a man coffined. Near the counter where the food was served out, one of the cooks swore interminably in a whiny, sing-song voice. Gee, Bill, I've got ahead, said Fuselli. You ought to have, growled Bill Gray. I had to carry you up into the barracks. You said you were going back to the damn girl. Did I, said Fuselli, giggling? I had a hell of a time getting you past the guard. Some cognac. I gotta hang over now, said Fuselli. I'm god damned if I can go this much longer. What? They were washing their mess-kits in the tub of warm water thick with grease from the hundred mess-kits that had gone before in front of the shack. An electric light illuminated faintly the wet trunk of a plain tree and the surface of the water where bits of oatmeal floated in coffee grounds and the garbage pails with their painted signs. Wet garbage, dry garbage and the line of men who stood waiting to reach the tub. This hell of a life, said Bill Gray savagely. What do you mean? Doin' nothin' but pack bandages and packin' cases and take bandages out of packin' cases. I'll go crazy. I've tried gettin' drunk. Don't do no good. Gee, I've got a head, said Fuselli. Bill Gray put his heavy, muscular hand around Fuselli's shoulder as they strolled towards the barracks. Say, Dan, I'm goin' AWOL. Don't you do it, Bill! Look at the chance we've got to get ahead. We can both of us get promoted if we don't get in wrong. I don't give a hootin' hell for all that. What do you think I got in this goddamn army four? Because I thought I'd look nice in the uniform? Bill Gray thrust his hands into his pockets and spat dismally in front of him. But Bill, you don't want to stay a buck private, do you? I want to get to the front. I don't want to stay here till I get in the jug for being spiffed or get a gun. I don't want to get in the jug for being spiffed or get a court-martial. Say, Dan, will you come with me? Hell, Bill, you ain't goin'. You're just kiddin', ain't ya? They'll send us there soon enough. I want to get to be a corporal. He puffed out his chest a little. Before I get to the front, it's supposed to be able to show what I'm good for. See, Bill? A bugle-blue. There's fatigue and I ain't done my bunk. Me neither. They won't do nothin', Dan. Don't let them ride ya, Dan. They lined up in the dark road feeling the mud slopping under their feet. The ruts were full of black water, in which gleamed a reflection of distant electric lights. All you fellows work in storehouse A today, said the sergeant who had been a preacher in his sad, drolling voice. Lieutenant says that's all got to be finished by noon. They're sending it to the front today. Somebody let his breath out in a whistle of surprise. Who did that? Nobody answered. Dismissed, snapped the sergeant disgustedly. They straggled off into the darkness towards one of the lights, their feet splashing confusedly in the puddles. Fuseli strolled up to the sentry at the camp gate. He was brought to the camp gate he was picking his teeth meditatively with the splinter of a pine board. Say, Phil, you couldn't let me have a dollar, could you? Fuseli stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and looked at the sentry with the splinter sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Sorry, Dan, said the other man. I'm cleaned out. It had a scent since New Year's. Why the hell don't they pay us? You guys signed the payroll yet? Sure. So long. Fuseli strolled on down the dark road, where the mud was frozen into deep ruts towards the town. It was still strange to him this town of little houses faced with cracked stucco where the damp made grey stains and green stains of confused red-tiled roofs and of narrow cobbled streets that zig-zagged in and out among high walls overhung with balconies. At night, when it was dark except for where a lamp in a window spelt gold reflections out on the wet street, or the light streamed out from a store or a cafe, it was almost frighteningly unreal. He walked down into the main square where he could hear the fountain gurgling. In the middle he stopped, quickly, his coat unbuttoned, his hands pushed to the bottom of his trousers' pockets where they encountered nothing but the claw. He listened a long time to the gurgling of the fountain and to the shunting of trains far away in the freight yards. And this is the war, he thought. Ain't it queer? It's quieter than it was at home nights. Down the street, at the end of the square, a band of white light appeared, the searchlight of a staff car. The two eyes of the car stared straight into his eyes, dazzling him, then veered off to one side and whizzed past, leaving a faint smell of gasoline and a sound of voices. Fuseli watched the fronts of houses light up as the car made its way to the main road. Then the town was dark and silent again. He strolled across the square to Chaval Blanc, the large cafe where the officers went. Button your coat! came a gruff voice. He saw a stiff tall figure at the edge of the curve. He made out the shape of the pistol-holder that hung like a thin ham at the man's thigh, an MP. He buttoned his coat hurriedly and walked off with rapid steps. He stopped outside a cafe that had ham and eggs in the middle of the window and looked in wistfully. Someone from behind him put two big hands over his eyes. He wriggled his head free. Hello, Dan! he said. How did you get out of the jug? I'm a trusty kid, said Dan Kohan. Got any dough? Not a damn cent! Me neither. Come on in anyway, said Kohan. He ended up with Marie. Fuseli followed doubtfully. He was a little afraid of Dan Kohan. He remembered how a man had been court-martialed last week for trying to bolt out of the cafe without paying for his drinks. He sat down at a table near the door. Dan had disappeared into the back room. Fuseli felt homesick. He was thinking how long it was since. He had had a letter from Mabe. I bet she's got another feller, he told himself savagely. He tried to remember how she looked, but he had to take out his watch and peep in the back before he could make out if her nose were straight or snub. He looked up, clicking the watch in his pocket. Marie of the White Arms was coming laughing out of the inner room. Her large, firm breasts, neatly held in by the clothes-fitting blouse, shook a little when she laughed. Her cheeks were very red and a strand of chestnut hair hung down along her neck. She picked it up hurriedly and caught it up with a hairpin, walking slowly into the middle of the room as she did so with her hands behind her head. Dan Kohan followed her into the room, a broad grin on his face. All right, kid, he said. I told her you'd pay when Uncle Sam came across. Ever had any kumo? What the hell's that? You'll see. They sat down before a dish of fried eggs at the table in the corner, the favoured table where Marie herself often sat and chatted when wizened madame did not have her eye upon her. Several men drew up their chairs, while Dan Kohan always had an audience. Looks like there was going to be another offensive at Verdun, said Dan. Someone answered vaguely. Funny how little we know about what's going on out there, said one man. I knew more about the war when I was home in Minneapolis than I do here. I guess we're lighting into him all right, said Fuseli in a patriotic voice. Hell! Nothing new in this time of year anyway, said Kohan. A grin spread across his red face. Last time I was at the front, the boss had just made a koo-de-man and caught up with her. At the front, the boss had just made a koo-de-man and captured a whole trench full of who? Of Americans. Of us. The hell you say? That's a goddamn lie! shouted a black-haired man with an ill-shavin' jaw who had just come in. There ain't never been an American captured and there never will be by God. How long were you at the front, buddy? asked Kohan Cooley. I guess you've been to Berlin already, ain't ya? I say that any man who says an American and let himself be captured by a stinking hon is a goddamn liar, said the man with the ill-shavin' jaw sitting down sullenly. Well, you'd better not say it to me, said Kohan, laughing, looking meditatively at one of his big red fists. There had been a look of apprehension on Marie's face. She looked at Kohan's first shrugged her shoulders and laughed. Another crowd had just slouched into the cafe. Well, if that isn't wild, Dan! Hello, old kid, how are you? Hello, Duke? A small man in a coat that looked almost like an officer's coat it was so well cut was shaking hands effusively with Kohan. He wore a corporal's stripes and a British aviator's fatigue cap. Kohan made room for him on the bench. What are you doing in this hole, Duke? The man twisted his mouth so that his neat black mustache was a slant. G.O. 42, he said. Battle of Paris, said Kohan in a sympathetic voice. Battle of Nice. I'm going back to my section soon. I'd never have got a court martial if I'd been with my outfit. I was in the base hospital 15 with pneumonia. Tough luck! It was a hell of a note. Say, Duke, your outfit was working with ours at Cham 4 that time, wasn't it? You mean when we evacuated the Nutt Hospital? Yeah, wasn't that hell? Dan Kohan gulped down half a glass of red wine, smacked his thick lips and began in his storytelling voice. Our section had just come out of Verdun where we'd been getting hell for three weeks on the bra road. There was one little hill where we'd have to get out and shove every damn time and the mud was so deep and God, it stank there with the shells turning up the ground off of a Maccabees as the poilers call them. Say, Duke, have you got any money? I've got some, said Duke, without enthusiasm. Well, the champagne's damn good here. I'm part of the outfit in this gin mill. They'll give it to you at a reduction. All right. Dan Kohan turned round and whispered something to Marie. She laughed and dived down behind the curtain. But that sham floor was worse yet. Everybody was sort of nervous because the Germans had dropped a message saying they'd give them three days to clear the hospital out and then they'd shell the hell out of the place. The Germans done that? Quit your kid, said Fuseli. They did it at Sui, said Duke. Hell, yes! Funny thing happened there. The hospital was in a big rambling house looked like an Atlantic City hotel. We used to run our car in back and sleep in it. It was where we took the shell shock cases, fellows who were roaring mad and trembling all over and someone paralyzed like there was a man in the wing opposite where we slept who kept laughing. Bill Rees was on the car with me and we laid in our blankets in the bottom of the car and every now and then one of us would turn over and whisper I hate this hell kid! Because that fellow kept laughing like a man who just heard a joke that was so funny he couldn't stop laughing. It was like a crazy man's laugh usually is. When I first heard it I thought it was a man really laughing and I guess I laughed too. But it didn't stop. Bill Rees and me laid in our car shivering listening to the barrage in the distance and the big noise of an airplane bomb and that fellow laughing like he just heard a joke like something that struck him funny. Kohan took a gulp of champagne and jerked his head to one side. And that damn laughing kept up until about noon the next day when the orderly strangled the fellow got their goat I guess if you saw he was looking towards the other side of the room where a faint murmur of righteous indignation was rising from the dark man with the unshaven jaw and his companions. If you saw he was thinking that it wasn't good to be seen round too much with a fellow like Kohan who talked about the Germans notifying hospitals before they bombarded them and who was waiting for a court-martial might get him in wrong. He slipped out of the cafe and into the dark. A dank wind blew down the irregular street ruffling the reflected light in the puddles making a shutter bang interminably somewhere. If you saw he went to the main square again casting an envious glance in the window of the cheval blanc where he saw officers playing billiards in a well-lighted room painted white in gold and a blonde girl in a raspberry-coloured shirt-based and thrown hotly behind the bar. He remembered the MP and automatically hastened his steps. In a narrow street on the other side of the square he stopped before the window of a small grocery shop and peered inside keeping carefully out of the oblong of light that showed faintly the grass-grown cobbles and the green and grey walls opposite. A girl sat knitting beside the small counter with her two little black feet placed demurely side by side on the edge of a box full of red beads. She was very small and slender. The lamp-light gleamed on her black hair done close to her head. Her face was in the shadow. Several soldiers lounged awkwardly against the counter and the jams of the door following her movements with their eyes as dogs watched a plate of meat being moved about in the kitchen. After a little, the girl rolled up her knitting and jumped to her feet showing her face. An oval white face with large dark lashes and an impertinent mouth. She stood looking at the soldiers who stood about her in a circle then twisted up her mouth in a grimace and disappeared into the inner room. Fuseli walked to the end of the street where there was a bridge over a small stream. He leaned on the cold stone rail and looked into the water that was barely visible gurgling beneath rims of ice. Oh, this is a hell of a life, he muttered. He shivered in the cold wind but remained leaning over the water. In the distance trains rumbled interminably giving him a sense of vast desolate distances. The village clock struck eight. The bell had a softer note like the bass string of a guitar. In the darkness, Fuseli could almost see the girl's face grimacing with its broad, impertinent lips. He thought of the somber barracks and men sitting about on the end of their cots. Hell, he couldn't go back yet. His whole body was taut with desire for warmth and softness and quiet. He slouched back along the narrow street cursing in a dismal monotone. Before the grocery store, he stopped. The men had gone. He went in jauntily pushing his cap a little to one side so that some of his thick curly hair came out over his forehead. The little bell in the door clanged. The girl came out of the inner room. She gave him her hand indifferently. Come on, ça va? Yvon? Bon? His pigeon French made her show her little pearly teeth in a smile. Good, she said in English. They laughed, childishly. Say, will you be my girl, Yvon? She looked in his eyes and laughed. Non compris, she said. Oui, oui. Voulez-vous être ma fille? She shrieked with laughter and slapped him hard on the cheek. Venet, she said, still laughing. He followed her. In the inner room was a large oak table with chairs rounded. At the end, Eisenstein and a French soldier were talking excitedly so absorbed in what they were saying that they did not notice the other two. Yvon took the Frenchman by the hair and pulled his head back and told him, still laughing, what Fuseli had said. He laughed. No, you must not say that, he said in English, turning to Fuseli. Fuseli was angry and sat down suddenly at the end of the table, keeping his eyes on Yvon. She drew the knitting out of the pocket of her apron and holding it up comically between two fingers. Glanced towards the dark corner of the room where an old woman with a lace cap on her head sat asleep and then let herself fall into a chair. Boom, she said. Fuseli laughed until the tears filled his eyes. She laughed, too. They sat along while looking at each other and giggling while Eisenstein and the Frenchman talked. Suddenly Fuseli caught a phrase that startled him. What would you Americans do if revolution broke out in France? We'd do what we were ordered to, said Eisenstein bitterly or a bunch of slaves. Fuseli noted that Eisenstein's puffy, sallow face was flushed and that there was a flash in his eyes he had never seen before. How do you mean revolution? Asked Fuseli in a puzzled voice. The Frenchman turned black eyes searchingly upon him. I mean stop the butchery, overthrow the capitalist government, the social revolution. But you're a Republic already, ain't you? As much as you are. You talk like a socialist, said Fuseli. They tell me they shoot guys in America for talking like that. You see, said Eisenstein to the Frenchman, are they all like that? Except a very few. It's hopeless, said Eisenstein bearing his face in his hands. I often think of shooting myself. Better shoot someone else, said the Frenchman. I'm more useful. Fuseli stirred uneasily in his chair. Where do you fellas get that stuff anyway, he asked. In his mind he was saying a kike and a frog, that's a good combination. His eye caught Yvonne's and they both laughed. Yvonne threw her knitting ball at him. It rolled down under the table and they both scrambled about under the chairs looking for it. Twice I've thought it was going to happen, said the Frenchman. When was that? A little while ago a division started marching on Perry and when I was in Verdun. Oh, there will be a revolution. France is the country of revolutions. We'll always be here to shoot you down, said Eisenstein. Wait till you've been in the war a little while. A winter in the trenches will make an army ready for revolution. But we have no way of learning the truth and in the tyranny of the army a man becomes a brute, a piece of machinery. Remember, you are freer than we are. We are worse than the Russians. It is curious. Oh, but you must have some feeling of civilization. I've always heard that Americans were free and independent. Will they let themselves be driven to the slaughter always? Oh, I don't know. Eisenstein got to his feet. We'd better be getting back to barracks. Coming, Fuseli, he said. Guess so, said Fuseli indifferently without getting up. Eisenstein and the Frenchman went out into the shop. Bonsoir, said Fuseli softly leaning across the table. Hey, girly. He threw himself on his belly on the wide table and put his arms round her neck and kissed her, feeling everything go blank in a flame of desire. She pushed him away calmly with strong little arms. Stop, she said, and jerked her head in the direction of the old woman in the chair in the dark corner of the room. They stood side by side listening to her faint, wheezy snoring. He put his arms round her and kissed her long on the mouth. Demain, he said. She nodded her head. Fuseli walked fast up the dark street towards the camp. The blood pounded happily through his veins. He caught up with Eisenstein. Say, Eisenstein, he said in a comradely voice. I don't think you got to go talking round like that. You'll get yourself into deep one of these days. I don't care. But hell, man, you don't want to get in the wrong that bad. They shoot fellers for less than you said. Let them. Christ, man, you don't want to be a damn fool expostulated Fuseli. How old are you, Fuseli? I'm twenty now. I'm thirty. I've lived more, kid. I know what's good and what's bad. This butchery makes me unhappy. God, I know. It's a hell of a note. But who brought it on? If somebody had shot that Kaiser. Eisenstein laughed bitterly. At the entrance of camp, Fuseli lingered a moment, watching the small form of Eisenstein disappear with its curious, waddley walk into the darkness. I'm going to be damn careful who I'm seen going into barracks where he said to himself, that damn kike may be a German spy or a secret service officer. A cold chill of terror went over him, shattering his mood of joy as self-satisfaction. His feet slopped in the puddles, breaking through the thin ice as he walked up the road towards the barracks. He felt as if people were watching him from everywhere out of the darkness, as if some gigantic figure were driving him forward through the darkness, holding a fist over his head ready to crush him. When he was rolled up in his blankets in the bunk next to Bill Gray, he whispered to his friend, Say, Bill, I think I've got a skirt all fixed up in town. Who? Yvonne, don't tell anybody. Bill Gray whistled softly. You're some high flyer, Dan, if you sully chuckled. Hell, man, the best ain't good enough for me. Well, I'm going to leave you, said Bill Gray. When? Damn soon. I can't go this life. I don't see how you can. Fuseli did not answer. He snuggled warmly into his blankets, thinking of Yvonne and the Corporal ship. In the light of the one flickering lamp that made an unsteady circle of reddish glow on the station platform, Fuseli looked at his pass. From Reveille on February 4th to Reveille on February 5th, he was a free man. His eyes smarted with sleep as he walked up the road. His eyes were wide open and his eyes smarted with sleep as he walked up and down the cold station platform. For twenty-four hours he wouldn't have to obey anybody's orders. Despite the loneliness of going away on a train in a night like this in a strange country, Fuseli was happy. He clinked the money in his pocket. Down the track a red eye appeared and grew nearer. He could hear the hard puffing of the engine up the grade. Huge curves gleamed as the engine roared slowly past him. A man with bare arms, black with cold dust was leaning out of the cab, lit up from behind by a yellowish red glare. Now the cars were going by. Flat cars with guns tilted up like the muzzles of hunting dogs, freight cars out of which here and there appeared a man's head. The train almost came to a stop. The cars clanged one against the other, all down the train. Fuseli was looking into a pair of eyes that shone in the lamplight. A hand was held out to him. So long, kid, said a boyish voice. I don't know who the hell you are, but so long. Good luck. So long, stammered Fuseli. Going to the front? You goddamn right! answered another voice. The train took up speed again. The clanging of car against car ceased, and in a moment they were moving fast before Fuseli's eyes. Then the station was dark and empty again, and he was watching the red light grow smaller and paler while the train rubbled on into the darkness. A confusion of gold and green and crimson silks and intricate designs of naked pink-fleshed cupids filled Fuseli's mind when, full of wonder, he walked down the steps of the palace, out into the faint, ruddy sunlight at the afternoon. A few names, Napoleon, Josephine, the Empire, that had never had significance in his mind before flared with a lurid, gorgeous light in his imagination like a tableau of living statues at a vaudeville theater. They must have a heap of money, them guys, said the man who was with him, a private in aviation. Let's go have a drink. Fuseli was silent and absorbed in his thoughts. Here was something that supplemented his visions of wealth and glory, but that he used to tell Al about when they'd sit and watch the big liners come in, all glittering with lights through the golden gate. They didn't mind having naked women about, did they? said the private in aviation, a morose foul-mouthed little man in a woollen business. Do you blame them? No, I can't say as I do. I bet there was immoral them guys. He continued vaguely. They wandered about the streets of Fontainebleau listlessly, looking into shop windows, staring at women, lolling on benches in the parks where the faint sunlight came through a lacework of twigs, purple and crimson and yellow that cast intricate lavender-gray shadows on the asphalt. Let's go have another drink, said the private in aviation. Fusselli looked at his watch. They had hours before train time. A girl in a loose, dirty blouse wiped off the table. Van Blank, said the other man. Mame shows, said Fusselli. His head was full of gold and green moldings and silk and crimson velvet and intricate designs in which pink-fleshed cupids rived indecently. Someday, he was saying to himself, he'd make a hell of a lot of money and live in a house like that with Mabe. No, with Yvonne or with some other girl. Must have been immoral them guys, said the private in aviation, leering at the girl in the dirty blouse. Fusselli remembered of Revelle he'd seen in a moving picture of Quo Vadis, and bath robes dancing around with large cups in their hands and tables full of dishers being upset. Konyak Boku, said the private in aviation. Mame shows, said Fusselli. The cafe was full of gold and green silks and great brocaded beds with heavy carvings above them, beds in which rived pink-fleshed and indecent, intricate patterns of cupids. Hello, Fusselli. He was on the train. His ears hummed, and his head had an iron band round it. It was dark except for the little light that flickered in the ceiling. For a minute he thought it was a goldfish and a bowl, but it was a light that flickered in the ceiling. Hello, Fusselli, said Eisenstein. Feel all right? Sure, said Fusselli with a thick voice. Why shouldn't I? How did you find that house? said Eisenstein seriously. Oh, I don't know. Mothered Fusselli, I'm going to sleep. His mind was a jumble. He remembered vast halls full of green and gold silks and great beds with crowns over them where Napoleon and Josephine used to sleep. Who were they? Oh, yes, the Empire. What was it the abdication? Then there were patterns of flowers and fruits and cupids all gilded and a dark passage and stairs that smelt musty where he and the man in aviation fell down. He remembered how it felt the rub his nose hard on the gritty red plush carpet of the stairs. Then there were women in openwork skirts standing about. Were those the pictures on the walls? And there was a bed with mirrors around it. He opened his eyes. Eisenstein was talking to him. He must have been talking to him for some time. I look at it this way, he was saying. I fell her needs a little of that to keep healthy. Now if he's abstemious and careful, Fusselli went to sleep. He woke up again thinking suddenly. He must borrow that little blue book of army regulations. It would be useful to know that in case something came up. The corporal who had been in the red socks outfield had been transferred to a base hospital. It was TB, so Sergeant Osier said. Anyway, they were going to appoint an acting corporal. He stared at the flickering little light in the ceiling. How did you get a pass? Eisenstein was asking. Oh, the sergeant fixed me up with one. Answered Fusselli mysteriously. You're in pretty good with the sergeant, ain't you? Said Eisenstein. Fusselli smiled deprecatingly. Say, do you know that little kid stalked him? The white-faced little kid who's clerking that outfit that has the other end of the barracks? That's him, said Eisenstein. I wish I could do something to help that kid. He just can't stand the discipline. He ought to see him wince when the red-haired sergeant over there yells at him. The kid looks sicker every day. He's got a good, soft job. Clerk, said Fusselli. You think it's soft? I worked twelve hours day before yesterday getting out reports, said Eisenstein, indignantly. But the kids lost it and they keep riding him for some reason or other. It hurts a fella to see that. Fool. He's got to take his medicine, said Fusselli. You wait till we get butchered in the trenches. We'll see how you like your medicine, said Eisenstein. Damn fool, muttered Fusselli, composing himself to sleep again. The bugle wrenched Fusselli out of his blankets, half dead with sleep. Say, Bill, I got ahead again, he muttered. There was no answer. It was only then that he noticed that the cot next to his was empty. The blankets were folded neatly at the foot. Sudden panic seized him. He couldn't get along without Bill Gray, he said to himself. He wouldn't have anyone to go round with. He looked fixedly at the empty cot. Attention! The company was lined up in the dark with their feet in the mud puddles of the road. The lieutenants strode up and down in front of them with the tail of his trench coat sticking out behind. He had a pocket flashlight that he kept flashing at the gaunt trunks of trees in the faces of the company at his feet in the puddles of the road. If any man knows anything about the whereabouts of Private First Class William Gray report at once, as otherwise we'll have to put him down a-wall. You know what that means? The lieutenants spoke in short, shrill periods, chopping off the ends of his words as if with a hatchet. No one said anything. I guess he's S-O-L. This from someone behind Fuselli. And I have one more announcement to make men, said the lieutenant in his natural voice. I'm going to appoint Fuselli, First Class Private, acting Corporal. Fuselli's knees went weak under him. He felt like shouting and dancing with joy. He was glad it was dark so that no one could see how excited he was. Sergeant dismissed the company, said the lieutenant, bringing his voice back to its military tone. Company dismissed, said out the sergeant, Joe Veely. In groups, talking with crisp voices, cheered by the occurrence of events, the company straggled along the great stretch of battles towards the meth shack. End of section 4.