"Cover his face," said Grierson, in a low and husky voice afterwards.
"What'll I cover it with?" said Watkins.
They looked at themselves. They stood in their shirts, trousers,
leggings, shoes; they had nothing.
"Oh," said Grierson, "here's his hat." He brought it and laid it on the
face of the dead man. They stood for a time. It was apparent that they
thought it essential and decent to say or do something. Finally Watkins
said in a broken voice, "Aw, it's a dam shame." They moved slowly off
toward the firing line.
* * * * *
In the blue gloom of evening, in one of the fever-tents, the two rows
of still figures became hideous, charnel. The languid movement of a
hand was surrounded with spectral mystery, and the occasional painful
twisting of a body under a blanket was terrifying, as if dead men were
moving in their graves under the sod. A heavy odour of sickness and
medicine hung in the air.
"What regiment are you in?" said a feeble voice.
"Twenty-ninth Infantry," answered another voice.
"Twenty-ninth! Why, the man on the other side of me is in the
Twenty-ninth."
"He is?... Hey, there, partner, are you in the Twenty-ninth?"