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"Oh, we'll have you sayin' worse things than 'damn' when we get you out on the front with a goddam German aeroplane droppin' bombs on you," said the top sergeant, slapping him on the back. "Now, I want you five men to look out for the grub." Fuselli's chest swelled. "The company'll be in charge of the corporal for the night. Sergeant Jones and I have got to be with the lieutenant, understand?"
Fuselli's legs moved him automatically back into a corner of the court, where he leaned against the damp wall; glaring with smarting eyes at the two women who stood talking outside the kitchen door, and at the dark shadow behind the hogshead. At last, after several smacking kisses, the women went away and the kitchen door closed. The bell in the church spire struck eleven slowly and mournfully.
There was no sound except that of feet scraping occasionally on the floor. 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.
Fuselli'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: "Grey, Appleton, Williams, Eisenstein, Porter...Eisenstein will be company clerk.... " Fuselli was almost ready to cry. His name was not on the list.
He smiled broadly and put his hand paternal-fashion on Fuselli's knee. "Sure; you needn't worry, kid. I've got you fixed up all right," he said; then he added jovially, "Well, let's go see that girl of yours." They went out into the dark streets, where the wind, despite the smell of burnt gasolene and army camps, had a faint suavity, something like the smell of mushrooms; the smell of spring.
A confusion of gold and green and crimson silks and intricate designs of naked pink-fleshed cupids filled Fuselli's mind, when, full of wonder, he walked down the steps of the palace out into the faint ruddy sunlight of the afternoon.
"All ready for entrainment, sir," said the sergeant heartily. "Very good, I'll let you know the order of march in a minute." Fuselli's ears pounded with strange excitement. These phrases, "entrainment," "order of march," had a businesslike sound. He suddenly started to wonder how it would feel to be under fire. Memories of movies flickered in his mind.
The lieutenant 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, 1st-class private, acting corporal." Fuselli's knees were weak under him.
A cold chill gripped Fuselli'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 corporalship. He must be careful. If he just watched out and kept on his toes, he'd be sure to get it.
Standing behind the line of his company, Fuselli's chest was stuck out until the buttons of his tunic were in danger of snapping off. His shoes were well-shined, and he wore a new pair of puttees, wound so tightly that his legs ached. At last the bugle sounded across the silent camp. "Parade rest!" shouted the lieutenant.
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