IV

The platoon had been in the trenches for about six weeks. Everything had

been quiet, well-ordered. Occasionally a shell from the German batteries

would start lazily off and end up with terrific speed in the platoon’s

trench. Once or twice men were killed when the shells struck, and their

bodies were hurried away to the dressing station; one morning the body

of a red-haired German, an immense fellow with a broad forehead, large

wide eyes, and a huge mouth, was found fastened to the strands of barbed

wire in front of Hicks’s post. There was a hole in his side made by

the explosion of a small hand-bomb. Besides that, there was nothing of

interest.

In fact, there was too little of interest. Not even a prisoner had been

taken, although the colonel of the regiment had let it be known that the

first man to capture a prisoner would be given a fifteen-days leave to

Aix-le-Bains. So it was decided that a raiding party was what was needed

to resuscitate the platoon from its lethargy.

It was for this reason that when Hicks and Bullis set out through

the trench toward their shell hole one night they were stopped by the

lieutenant and told that they had been relieved for the night and were to

return to their dugout and await his orders.

Hicks was disturbed. He felt as if the lieutenant’s orders had in some

way to do with his sleeping on watch. He had not minded the consequences

so much when he was walking toward battalion headquarters, but now that

everything with regard to the affair seemed to have been smouldering,

he was fearful. Being rather reckless, probably the first time that

Major Adams’s remark that he might get a general court martial was fully

realized by him was at the moment when he and Bullis had been sent back

to their dugout.

Now he sat, his head bowed and his hands clasped before him. What the

hell was he to do? It was the first time he had thought of his family.

What would Maisie say when she discovered that he, William Hicks, was in

Fort Leavenworth? What would the gang at the office say? And his mother?

Maybe they might order him to be shot! This was a mess. But no, wasn’t

there a general order recently made to the effect that no one in the

American Expeditionary Forces could be executed without permission of

President Wilson? Sure there was. Good of the old horse-face to think of

that. But maybe there was a way to get out of it yet. He considered for a

moment the advisability of clambering over the trench and setting forth

into that unexplored field, never to return unless he brought a German

prisoner with him. Let’s see, how had they done it, he mused. There

were plenty of heroes who could. They’d just fill their pockets with

hand-grenades and blow up a machine-gun nest. “Major Adams, I fulfilled

your prediction! Here!”—indicating three fierce-looking Germans with the

stump of his left arm, which had been shot off during his single-handed

assault. “And there were five more, but I would have had to carry them.”

Bunk.

“All right, Hicks and Bullis. Are you all set?” Lieutenant Bedford, with

his aggressive little mustache, was peering into the dugout from the

trench. “Here’s some blacking for your bayonets. We’re going on a raiding

party to-night.”

“Hooray. That’s the stuff.” But the voice of Bullis was weak and shaky.

“When do we go?”

Hicks was nonplussed. He hastily wondered whether he had said a prayer

that had been answered. He wanted some source to lay this bit of good

fortune to. And at the same time he doubted whether it was unalloyed

fortune, whether there were not some disagreeable part to be performed.

So he said nothing, but began in a businesslike manner to dim the lustre

of his bayonet with the blacking Bedford had given to him.

“We’ll be ready to start in a half-hour. We’ve got to wait for guides

from the Intelligence section.” Lieutenant Bedford walked away.

When the guides arrived and the representatives from each platoon were

assembled it was night, and so dark that one could not see another in

front of him. A lieutenant and a sergeant from the Intelligence section

led the way, with Hicks and Bullis sandwiched in the middle of the long

line that kept from separating by the man in rear holding to the shoulder

of the man in front of him.

Instead of leaving the trench by Hicks’s shell hole, the party turned in

the opposite direction, and, after walking along the slippery duck boards

for ten or more minutes, climbed over a firing bay and worked their way

through a path that a succession of well-placed shells had blown in the

barbed wire.

Their feet, scuffing through the tall grass, hissed like a scythe cutting

heavy weeds. That, and an occasional cough, were the only noises of the

night. Suddenly Hicks’s foot struck a large, yielding substance. He felt

with his feet, prodding into the thing, which caused a fearful stench to

rise.

“Hey, what’s this?” he softly called, and the Intelligence-section

sergeant came running back only to exclaim in a voice that had been

hardened by one other raiding party: “That? Why, that’s only a dead

Boche.”

A moment afterward an automatic rifle broke nervously into a series of

put-put-puts.

As one man, the party fell flat on their stomachs.

“Put-put-put. Put-put-put,” said the automatic rifle.

“Damnation,” Bedford cursed. “It’s somebody from our lines firing at us.”

“Well, don’t talk so loud,” one of the men said angrily, “or you’ll have

both sides on us.”

The lieutenant from the Intelligence section gave orders for the men to

lie prone and to crawl after him. After a while he rose, motioning for

the others to get up.

“I think,” he said, talking to Bedford in an undertone, “that this is the

place where we get back in the trench. Let’s count up our men and see if

they are all here.”

They counted as many times as a surgeon counts the sponges he uses in an

operation, but each count only made more certain that there was one man

missing. Investigation showed them that the lost man was Corporal Olin,

from the adjoining company.

While they were debating upon what course to take, they noticed from

their lines a green rocket fired into the air.

“Gas,” hoarsely cried the lieutenant of the Intelligence section,

struggling to get on his respirator.

* * * * *

Poor Hicks knew not what to do. Before the rocket had been fired he had

about decided to return to look for the missing corporal. But with a

respirator on he could hardly breathe, not to consider finding his way in

the dark. But of a sudden he whipped off his mask and started off in the

direction from which they had crawled. No one noticed his leaving, for

each man was too much taken up with his own affairs.

Hicks walked for a while, until he felt that he had neared the place

where the automatic rifle had begun firing at them. Then he dropped

upon his knees, and with his hands spread out as far along the ground

as he could spread them, felt for the lost body. Perspiration was

drenching him. It ran down his face and dropped off his chin, to splash

unconcernedly on the canvas covering of his mask. He felt as if all the

blood of his body was in the veins of his face. There! Certainly it was a

body.

“Olin,” he whispered. “Olin.” But there was no answer. He felt along the

body until his hand touched the face. It was warm, and then he knew that

he had found Olin. But not Olin! Just a body that had once been Olin. For

Olin was dead. Along the tunic and under the respirator box was a warm,

sticky substance. Hicks placed his hand over the breast above the heart.

It failed to beat.

“Oh, hell!” he muttered, and started to crawl back, hardly caring whether

he reached the raiding party or not.

To have saved Corporal Olin, to have brought him into the trench,

staggering under the weight over his shoulder, would, he realized, have

exonerated him completely in the eyes of Major Adams. Further, he would

have received either a Distinguished Service Cross or a Croix de Guerre.

But how could he, what sort of a fool would he have looked like, carrying

a dead man over his shoulder all the way into the trench! Well, it was

simply a case of misplaced heroism. He shrugged his shoulder and went on.

When he arrived at the place where he had left the party, just enough

light had broken to enable him to see them sprawled on the ground. With

their respirators still on they seemed, in the dim light, like pompous

owls.

Hicks approached, casually inquiring why they had not taken off their

masks. The lieutenant of the Intelligence section, after wildly motioning

with his hands, took off his mask, sniffed, and proceeded to curse Hicks

for not informing him that the gas had blown away.

“We might have been killed out here any minute, you damned bonehead.”

“Yes, and we probably will be killed now if we don’t get out of this

pretty soon. In five minutes it will be broad daylight. Besides, the gas

alarm was all a fake,” Hicks answered.

Now all the men had returned their respirators to the boxes which were

fastened by a cord around their necks to their breasts. The sergeant of

the Intelligence section set out to find the path in the barbed wire, but

there was none where he looked. He turned back, the men following after

him like lost sheep, and after sneaking along the wire for some minutes,

stopped.

“Hey, you over there in the trench. Pass the word along that the raiding

party’s coming in,” the sergeant of the Intelligence section called

toward the trench.

One of the sentries in the firing bay heard him, obeyed, and the raiding

party dashed through the wire and spilled into the trench. The company

commander, a former professor of English at a Texas college, emerged from

a near-by dugout and warmly wrung the hand of the lieutenant from the

Intelligence section.

“My God, I thought you boys were surely to be killed! You see, I—I must

have forgotten that the raiding party was still out, and when I heard

that machine-gun firing I thought the Germans were making an attack, so I

signalled for a barrage.”

“But you sent up the gas signal instead of the barrage signal,” Bedford

interposed.

“Yes, that was just it. I thought that I was firing a red rocket and

instead I was firing a green one.” He broke off quickly. “But you got in

all right?”

“All right but for one man,” said Bedford.

“And where is he?” the captain asked.

“He—he’s dead,” Hicks told the assembly.

Bedford turned quickly. “Hicks, how do you know he’s dead?”

“Well, I saw him. You can see for yourself. He’s out there dead.”

V

The platoon had been promised a relief for three weeks. Each day some

orderly or other would come past, announcing that on the following night

there was certain to be a relief. Sometimes it was the French who once

more were to take over the sector. Again it was the British. British

soldiers were reported to have been seen in a near-by town. And the

platoon? First it was going to Zeebrugge to storm the Mole. Another time

the platoon was to be disorganized and returned to the United States to

be used as recruiting and training officers. Sometimes they were all to

go on board ship as a mark of appreciation of their valor. This last

always was circulated about by one of the older men who had seen service

on the battleships.

But one night, before dark, Lieutenant Bedford passed the word along that

the men were to stand by, ready to be relieved. And in an hour’s time

their entire equipment had been assembled, and they stood ready to depart.

Slowly the hours passed, but about midnight the beat of the feet of

heavily laden men, their curses and their comment to one another could

be heard along the communication trench. Bedford, much excited, cautioned

each man on sentry duty to look sharply, for it was during the time of

relief that the enemy often chose to attack. Finally each of the old

sentries had given his special orders to the new sentry, and had slung on

his pack and assembled where the platoon stood waiting. They plodded off,

sloshing through the mud, with now and again a man slipping off the duck

boards and floundering hip-deep in the mud. The communication trench was

tortuous and long. It was morning before the last man had got out of it

and upon the road that took them on their way.

The moon was full and round. Through the shapely leaves of the trees, set

at regular intervals along the winding gravel road, it shone, divinely

lighting up the way for the tired, mud-caked platoon that straggled along

out and away from the front. For the first three miles the platoon had

kept intact, but now, one by one, the weaker were dropping out to rest

by the side of the road. Lieutenant Bedford and Sergeant Harriman, whose

heavy marching equipment had been thrown on the company supply cart,

marched gaily in front. There were no packs on their backs to bring

their shoulder-blades together until they nearly touched; nor were there

any straps to cut into the muscles of their shoulders until their arms

were numb.

Finally Hicks, with a nervous, infuriated, impotent “Oh, the hell with

it,” dropped out and threw his equipment into the ditch. “Let the dirty

dogs walk their heads off.” Two others dropped out with him and, contrary

to orders, all three lighted cigarettes.

Puffing away at his cigarette, one of the men began: “If I ever get out

of this man’s war they’ll have to hunt me with cannons to get me in

another.”

“You tell ’em. They sure will. When I git out of this outfit I’m goin’ up

into Montana and buy a ranch, and I’m goin’ to dig trenches and put up

barbed wire and git me some guns and spit at the whole bunch of ’em.”

“Why the hell do that? You can do all of that stuff here.”

“Yeh, but I wouldn’t have no God-damned mail-order shavetails tellin’ me

what to do and what not to do. That’s what I hate.”

“Well, there won’t be any more wars after this one, anyway. This is the

war to end war. After we lick these Boches everything will be all right.”

Hicks rose, faintly nauseated. He flung his cigarette away, threw his

equipment over his shoulders, and walked on.

When he arrived at the place where the platoon was to rest he felt quite

giddy. He slipped his pack from his shoulders and leaned it against the

side of the long, low, slatted bunk house. Of course there was a place

there for him to sleep. But, somehow, he did not want to sleep. His

stomach seemed about to tie itself into a knot, and he felt that this

could be prevented by something hot to drink. He wondered where the

galley was; the cooks were sure to have some hot coffee. A man passed,

and Hicks asked him whether the cook wagons had yet arrived.

“No, they haven’t. They never get here, you know. But there’s an old goof

in that building over there that’s got some chocolate. Why don’t you get

some?”

Hicks started away in the direction the man had pointed. Sure enough,

the place was crowded with soldiers, and many of them were drinking from

thick mugs. Hicks edged toward the counter and asked for a drink. The

Y. M. C. A. man filled a mug with hot, thin chocolate. It was the most

pleasant sight Hicks had seen in months. He reached for it and was about

to drink when something in the man’s eyes made him hesitate.

“Well, we don’t give this chocolate away!” said the man, turning up a

corner of his long, sallow face.

“How much is it?”

“It’s half a franc, that’s what it is.”

Hicks was about to put down the mug of chocolate, when a soldier from the

First Regular division stepped forward and offered him the money, and

then faced the man behind the counter.

“You’re a fine dirty slacker, you are. These men have been out in the

trenches for heaven knows how long, and they come back dog-tired and

hungry, and you refuse to give them a glass of your skimmed chocolate.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Hicks. “You know the kind he is. Why talk to him?”

He went back to the bunk house, found his bed, and crawled into it, not

stopping to undress.

* * * * *

For five hours the platoon had slept. When dawn, like a fifty-year-old

virgin, was showing its hard, cold face, the men had stumbled down into

the valley of Bois La Vec. After waiting outside for half an hour they

were permitted to enter one of the long, low, vermin-infested bunk houses

which lay in the valley. From their sleepless nights on sentry duty,

their lack of food, and the long, punishing march from the trenches,

they were thoroughly exhausted. Many of the men were in such a state of

fatigue that they dropped on the straw beds which had been provided for

the French army in 1914, without stopping to take off their muddy shoes.

And they slept dreamlessly, sodden beings with senses so dulled they

could not think of food. The mess sergeant had passed through the bunk

house, loudly and virtuously asserting that the daily fare was to be had.

Not one of the men had stirred.

A large touring-car, its wind-shield placarded with two white stars cut

in a field of red, drove down the valley along the gravel road, and

turned toward the bunk houses where the soldiers who preferred sleep to

food—and they had not tasted of food for twenty-four hours—were lying.

The motor stopped, and a lieutenant, with a curled mustache, leaned a

trifle forward from his seat beside the chauffeur and called:

“Where is the sentry of this camp?”

There was no answer.

The lieutenant stepped out of the car and strode precisely and firmly

toward the bunk house.

He spoke loudly. “Where is the sentry of this camp?”

Most of the men were too sleepy even to curse at the intruder. One or

two voices impolitely commanded him to “shut up,” and one voice mumbled:

“Where do you think you are at, anyway?”

Enraged at this disrespect, the lieutenant decided not to leave until he

had aroused some one.

Sergeant Harriman, who for once had been forced to sleep with the common

soldiers, awakened, and, seeing the lieutenant with the insignia upon his

collar worn by officers attached to the General Staff, dived from his

bunk like a jack-rabbit, saluting before his feet touched the ground.

The lieutenant roared: “Where is your company commander?”

“I’ll get him, sir!” And Sergeant Harriman scurried off.

He returned three feet in rear and three inches to the left of Captain

Powers.

“How do you do, lieutenant?” Captain Powers rubbed his sleepy eyes.

“Captain,” the lieutenant’s voice rang out, “Major-General Bumble will be

ready to inspect your organization in”—he looked at his wrist-watch—“two

hours.”

“Very well, sir.” Captain Powers returned the lieutenant’s salute. He

again rubbed his eyes and turned to Sergeant Harriman.

“Harriman, have the men got up immediately, police up, and be ready to

stand inspection in one hour and a half.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sergeant Harriman saluted sharply.

“And Harriman.”

“Sir!”

“Pass the word on to the sergeants of the other platoons. We officers

have had a pretty hard night of it, and I am going to try and get some

sleep before the general returns.”

Sergeant Harriman ran through the bunk houses, informing the other

platoon sergeants of their fortune.

That finished, he returned to his own bunk house, and, starting along the

row of sleeping men, unerringly picked the corporals of the squads and

instructed them to awaken their squads.

Soon the bunk house was filled with cries of: “Up you come, you dopes.

Rise and shine.”

“Is everybody up?”

“Then fall in beside your bunks and answer to roll-call.”

“Now,” said Sergeant Harriman, as he finished calling the platoon call,

“you’ve got jist one hour to police up and be ready to stand general

inspection. Snap into it.”

Meeting between the platoon and general officers had been very limited;

each man was overwhelmed with awe at the thought of a major-general

inspecting him. The scene changed to one of frenzied activity.

Dampened rags were rubbed over the stocks of the rifles; the rifle bores

were cleaned, their chambers, trigger-guard, and other metal pieces were

meticulously brushed; knives were put into use to scrape off the mud from

the shoes and clothing; the blankets were stripped from the bunks and

rolled into neat packs; water was found and stubbles of beard disappeared

magically under the sharp edges of razors, or else were hidden by heavy

coatings of talcum powder.

An hour afterward the platoon was in line in front of the bunk house.

Clicking his heels sharply, for he wore barracks shoes because his tender

feet were unable to stand the heavy hobnails issued to the soldier,

Sergeant Harriman halted before his command.

“Ha-right, dress.” His diaphragm, which had been expanded, noticeably

contracted as he uttered the command of execution. “Back just a trifle,

Hayes. Move your feet.... Come out, you man in the third squad of the

front rank. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Step out a bit. Dammit, move

your feet. All right, Corporal Kahl, suck in your gut and throw out your

chest. There....” The moment was tense. “Stea-a-dy. Front.” The left arms

of the men were dropped smartly at their sides.

Lieutenant Bedford, traces of sleepiness still in his eyes, came forward

and took charge of the platoon. He thrust out his arm, exposing a small

gold wrist-watch beneath his cuff. Giving the watch an off-hand glance,

he raised his voice: “All right, men, if you’ll keep one foot in place

I’ll give you at ease. No talking.” He walked to the rear of the platoon

and began to converse with Sergeant Harriman.

“Pipe down, you men, or you’ll stand at attention!” Sergeant Harriman

commanded.

The company commander came. He stood before the company and received the

lieutenant’s report. The company, which had been called to attention

during the formality, was given at ease again. They stood shuffling their

feet. One man surreptitiously drew from his pocket a piece of tobacco,

bit loose a small portion of it and returned it, unnoticed.

An hour passed.

Along the line voices were heard to remark: “Are we gonna stay here all

day? They might at least feed us before they break us out like this. A

hell of a note.”

Sergeant Harriman rose grandly to the occasion. “Shut up, you bunch of

agitators. I’ll drill you till your shoes fall off.”

“You wouldn’t have to drill me much. Mine already have holes in them,”

some one remarked.

“Who said that?” Sergeant Harriman was furious.

Lieutenant Bedford stepped in front of the platoon and called the men to

attention.

The second hour had passed.

A huge touring-car rounded the road and stopped. The company commander,

in magnificent tones, commanded them: “Company at-ten-shun. Open ranks.

March.... Steady.... Front.”

He saluted Major-General Bumble, who had stepped out of the touring-car.

“How do you do, captain.”

The major-general, followed by his lieutenant, followed by another,

followed by the company commander, followed by the first sergeant, walked

pompously along the line of the front rank. The driver of the touring-car

sent his car smoothly between the ranks. At the other end of the company

the car stopped. The major-general, the lieutenant with the curled

mustache, and another officer, climbed in and the car spurted away.

The ranks were closed, the company was reprimanded for its slovenly

appearance and dismissed.

* * * * *

Instead of measuring up to the platoon’s conception of a rest camp,

the routine was more like that of an intensive training camp. Each

morning there were close-order drills, at which Sergeant Harriman would

distinguish himself by giving the platoon a difficult command: “To

the rear, squads right about, right by squads, on right into line,” he

would proudly call off, ending with a very sharp “March!” For a while

the platoon obeyed, and in an orderly manner carried out the command.

One day, after Sergeant Harriman had given the command of execution, the

right guide of the platoon continued to march forward.

“What’s the matter there, right guide? Can’t you hear? Platoon, halt!”

Sergeant Harriman hurried forward and stood before the guide. “What the

devil is the matter? You ought to know that command by this time.”

The right guide spoke: “There is no such command any more.”

“What do you mean? How dare you!” Sergeant Harriman was exasperated. The

guide was calm.

“We’re under army regulations and you can’t give more than one command at

a time.”

“When I get you up before the company commander for insubordination

you’ll think otherwise. Wipe that smile off your face, you men back

there.”

He manœuvred them about until he had exhausted all of the commands that

he could think of. Then he ordered double-time, and they ran around the

field, in the burning hot sun, for fifteen minutes. It would have been

longer, but the company commander, passing by, ordered the platoon to be

halted, and, calling the sergeant aside, told him to stop.

Such occurrences served the platoon well, for the men were angered and

taken away from their more intimate troubles. In the evening the rifts of

the day would be forgotten as they would sit around the bunk house and

listen to old King Cole strum the guitar that the platoon had bought for

him.

It was late in May, and the rains that had marked the springtime had

almost stopped. It was evening, and a dull yellow moon soared gracefully

above shoals of white, vaguely formed clouds. In the heavens the disk

seemed like a ship, rocking a trifle as it rose over a sea of fluffy

cotton.

Outside the bunk house members of the platoon stretched full length on

the thick, soft grass, and listened to old King Cole pick tentatively at

the strings of his guitar.

“Play us somep’n’ sad an’ boozy, Humpy.”

“Naw, play ‘The Little Marine Went Sailing Away.’”

“Give us ‘If I Had the Wings of an Angel.’”

“Can’t play nothin’ without a drink,” King Cole informed the group. “Now,

if I was back in Muskogee to-night I’d go in M’Gittis’s saloon and say

‘Fill ’em up agin, M’Gittis,’ all night.... Ain’t nobody got a drink?” he

broke off plaintively.

“Well, I got a little wine you can have, Humpy. It’s in my canteen.”

“Wine? You call that red hog-wash wine? I like hooch, anyway.”

There was a pause.

“Go and git your damned old wine.” In the evenings when there was no

occupation for the platoon, King Cole rated equally with President Wilson.

The wine was brought and King Cole drank well. He wiped his mouth with

the back of his hand, emitted a satisfied “Ah,” and began:

“‘Oh, meet me, oh, meet me, to-night, love,

Oh, meet me in the garden alone.

For I’ve a sad story to tell you,

A story that’s never been told.’”

King Cole solemnly chanted the last lines and stopped.

“I can’t play no more. That damned wine makes me dry.”

The conversation turned upon decent prostitutes and honest gamblers, a

discussion over which Paul Kruger alone had taken the affirmative every

time.

“You betcha there can be decent gold-diggers. And honest gamblers, too,”

he was saying.

“What’s so funny about that? They’re nothing but ways of making a living.”

“Yes, but, Paul,” one of the men interrupted, “if a woman goes around and

sleeps with everybody she can’t be very decent, can she?”

“As decent as your damned society women every time. Now look here. A

woman gits married. And then she leaves her husband.” He stopped. “Got

that? Well, she marries another guy and then another. Now, how is she any

better than a regular gold-digger?”

“This ain’t _no_ place to talk about things like that. No place at all.

You all bettah be prayin’ to Gawd that this hyah wah’ll soon be ovah,”

said Pugh.

Mercifully, the officer of the day walked by and ordered them off to bed.

* * * * *

On Decoration Day all of the units of the regiment were marched to

regimental headquarters and crowded upon the lawn in front of the

building occupied by the colonel and his staff. After waiting perhaps

an hour, the regimental chaplain, pot-bellied, short-legged, and wholly

bald, addressed the soldiers. Vaguely they comprehended that this was the

day when fallen heroes were to be especially revered, and that it should

also be a day of silent prayer and commemoration for the souls of those

who were about to die. Half of the audience heard not a word, and fully

three-quarters of them would not have been interested if they had.

The platoons filed out and marched over the dusty road for several miles

back to their quarters. In some manner the commemoration address of the

regimental chaplain left the members of the platoon gloomy. For a long

while, as they marched along, there was no sound save for the muffled

tramp of feet on the thickly dust-coated road.

Finally Kahl ended the silence: “You know, fellows, the regimental

chaplain was right. All of us haven’t so damned long to live.”

“Come out of it, you gloom bug.”

“Why do you care? you’ll be alive to spit on all of our graves. You

should worry.”

“By God, Kahl’s right. I was up at Battalion P. C. night before last,

and I heard some old boy tellin’ Major Adams that we were goin’ back to

the front pretty damn quick.”

“Pretty damn quick? I guess we are. The battalion runner told me that we

was shovin’ off for the front to-night,” Pugh contributed.

To all this conversation Goldman, a New York Jew, who had given his

occupation as a travelling salesman, listened eagerly without appearing

especially to do so. His prominent, fluid-brown eyes were turned upon

Pugh, and they continued furtively to watch him while he spoke.

“You know, they say it’s hell up at the front now. The Squareheads have

busted through and the Frogs are fallin’ back as fast as they can. I

betcha,” Pugh continued excitedly, “that we’ll be up to the front in less

than—in less than a week.”

“Yeh, an’ they say they cut ya where you don’ wanna be cut.”

“Pipe down, you men back there. Who gave you permission to talk?”

Sergeant Harriman called.

“Who the hell gave you permission to give us permission to talk?” some

one indistinctly asked.

The platoon plodded along, their thoughts too taken up with the matter at

hand—arriving at their quarters, being fed, and going to sleep—to give

further thought to the eventuality of their being killed.

When they swung into their quarters, the fumes of the concoction which

they had cheerfully and not inaccurately entitled “slum” were apparent

to them. It assaulted their nostrils, but it was acceptable to empty

stomachs.

They sat around; some were cross-legged on the ground, others sat upon

manure piles, with their mess-gears half filled with slum by their sides.

Hicks and Pugh were seated together.

“What was that,” Hicks asked, “you were saying about going to the front?

Was that just general orders from the head, or was it straight?”

“Ah jist told you what I heard, Hicksy. Some old guy told Major Adams

that we’d be gittin’ out of here damn quick. That’s all I know. But say,

it wouldn’t surprise me none if we went any time. Even to-night.”

“Oh, hell, no. Not to-night. I’m too damned tired to move. I’d go to the

sick bay if we shoved off to-night.” Hicks was despondent.

Pugh shrugged his shoulders and once more attacked his slum. A moment

later the company commander walked toward the place where the men were

eating. He was followed by the first sergeant. He approached Harriman.

“Sergeant,” he said, “have your platoon make up their packs and stand by.

Let no one go to bed, and be ready to leave at any moment.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Harriman.

“By God, Pugh, you were right, you uncanny bitch. It’s to-night that we

leave,” said Hicks.

* * * * *

Midnight. Long rubber ponchos were drawn over recumbent figures; heads

were pillowed by packs; sleep remained impervious to Allied propaganda.

There was a tearing noise as a rifle exploded.

The company commander came running out of the farmhouse, where he and the

other officers lodged with the farmer and his family. “What the devil are

you men trying to do?”

“Somebody’s shot himself, captain.”

The first sergeant followed, bringing with him an electric torch. He

hurried to the place where a group of men had gathered. Pushing through,

he directed the rays of the torch toward the body. It was Goldman. He had

placed the butt of the rifle on the ground, and with the muzzle pressed

against his throat, had forced the trigger with his toe. There he lay,

with one shoe off and the blood streaming from a hole in his jaw.