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Chrisfield felt his spine go cold; the German had shot himself. He ran off suddenly, breathlessly, to join the rest of the reconnoitering squad. The silent beeches whirled about him, waving gnarled boughs above his head. The German had shot himself. That was why he had no face. Chrisfield fell into line behind the other men. The corporal waited for him. "See anything?" he asked.
Chrisfield sat on the red clay bank and looked about him, his rifle between his knees. In front of him on the side of the road was a French burying ground, where the little wooden crosses, tilting in every direction, stood up against the sky, and the bead wreaths glistened in the warm sunlight.
He kicked again and again with all his might. The German rolled over heavily. He had no face. Chrisfield felt the hatred suddenly ebb out of him. Where the face had been was a spongy mass of purple and yellow and red, half of which stuck to the russet leaves when the body rolled over. Large flies with bright shiny green bodies circled about it. In a brown clay-grimed hand was a revolver.
"Say, are we goin' towards the front?" "Goddamned if I know." "Ain't no front within miles." Men's sentences came shortly through their heavy breathing. The column shifted over to the side of the road to avoid a train of motor trucks going the other way. Chrisfield felt the heavy mud spurt up over him as truck after truck rumbled by.
Something made him put his hand on Chrisfield's hand that lay on the table. It had a feeling of cool health. "Say, why were you trembling so when you came in here? You seem all right now." "Oh, Ah dunno," said Chrisfield in a soft resonant voice. They were silent for a long while. They could hear the woman's footsteps going and coming behind them. "Let's go home," said Chrisfield.
I didn't know he was in this regiment." "God damn him!" muttered Chrisfield in a low voice, throwing himself down on his packs again. "Hold your horses, Chris," said Andrews. "We may all cash in our checks before long...no use letting things worry us." "I don't give a damn if we do." "Nor do I, now." Andrews sat down beside Chrisfield again. After a while the train got jerkily into motion.
They crawled into their tent again, rolled up together and immediately were crushed under an exhausted sleep. As far ahead of him as Chrisfield could see were packs and heads with caps at a variety of angles, all bobbing up and down with the swing of the brisk marching time. A fine warm rain was falling, mingling with the sweat that ran down his face.
Sergeant Higgins' head appeared in the door. "Fall in," he shouted. Then he added in his normal voice, "It's up and at 'em, fellers." Chrisfield caught his puttee on a clump of briars at the edge of the clearing and stood kicking his leg back and forth to get it free. At last he broke away, the torn puttee dragging behind him.
"Don't nobody get out," shouted the sergeant from the car ahead. "Hell! They keep you in this goddam car like you was a convict," muttered Chrisfield. "I'd like to get out and walk around Dijon." "O boy!" "I swear I'd make a bee line for a dairy lunch," said Judkins. "Hell of a fine dairy lunch you'll find among those goddam frogs. No, vin blank is all you'ld get in that goddam town."
Andrews kept his back to the window. Something in his legs seemed to be tramping in time with the other legs. "There they go," said Chrisfield. "Loot's with 'em today.... Want some grub? If it ain't been punk since the armistice."
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