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Updated: May 25, 2025
There were no batteries near, so they could hear the grinding roar of the gears as the trucks went along the uneven road, plunging in and out of shellholes. Chrisfield lay down in the dry ditch, full of bracken, and dozed with his head on his pack. All about him were stretched other men. Someone was resting his head on Chrisfield's thigh. The noise had subsided a little.
"A guy told me," interrupted Al, in a shrill voice, "there might be a revolution." "Come along, Andy," said Chris from the door. On the stairs Andrews felt Chrisfield's hand squeezing his arm hard. "Say, Andy," Chris put his lips close to Andrews's ear and spoke in a rasping whisper. "You're the only one that knows...you know what. You an' that sergeant.
"Ah'm goin' to sleep," said Chrisfield. He stretched himself out on the pile of equipment at the end of the car. Andrews sat down near him and stared at his mud-caked boots, running one of his long hands, as brown as Chrisfield's now, through his light short- cut hair. Chrisfield lay looking at the gaunt outline of Andrews's face against the light through half-closed eyes.
There were a sergeants stripes on his arm. "Say, Andy," cried Chrisfield, "that bastard is a sergeant." "Who's that?" asked Andrews getting up with a smile, his blue eyes looking mildly into Chrisfield's black ones. "You know who Ah mean." Under their heavy tan Chrisfield's rounded cheeks were flushed. His eyes snapped under their long black lashes. His fists were clutched. "Oh, I know, Chris.
Then he went on through clenched teeth: "Ah swear to Gawd Ah ain't tole another livin' soul.... An' the sergeant in Company D knows." "For God's sake, Chris, don't lose your nerve like that." "Ah ain't lost ma nerve. Ah tell you that guy knows." Chrisfield's voice rose, suddenly shrill. "Look, Chris, we can't stand talking out here in the street like this. It isn't safe."
The wind in the trees made a vast rhythmic sound like the churning of water astern of the transport he had come over on. Gold flicks and olive shadows danced among the indented clusters of leaves as they swayed, as if sweeping something away, against the bright sky. An idea came into Chrisfield's head.
"They're juss like you an me, skeered to death they'll get in wrong, but they won't light on a feller unless they have to." "That's a goddam lie," cried Chrisfield. "They like ridin' yer. A doughboy's less'n a dawg to 'em. Ah'd shoot anyone of 'em lake Ah'd shoot a nigger." Andrews was watching Chrisfield's face; it suddenly flushed red. He was silent abruptly.
"Yes, sir," came another voice. Slow heavy footsteps came up the road in their direction. Andrews kept pushing him back along the side of a house, until suddenly they both fell sprawling in a manure pit. "Lie still for God's sake," muttered Andrews, throwing an arm over Chrisfield's chest. A thick odor of dry manure filled their nostrils.
Out in the sunlight in the middle of the clearing he saw a man in olive-drab kneeling beside something on the ground. A German lay face down with a red hole in his back. The man was going through his pockets. He looked up into Chrisfield's face. "Souvenirs," he said. "What outfit are you in, buddy?" "143rd," said the man, getting to his feet slowly. "Where the hell are we?" "Damned if I know."
"Not a goddam thing," muttered Chrisfield almost inaudibly. The corporal went off to the head of the line. Chrisfield was alone again. The leaves rustled maddeningly loud underfoot. Chrisfield's eyes were fixed on the leaves at the tops of the walnut trees, etched like metal against the bright colorless sky, edged with flicks and fringes of gold where the sunlight struck them.
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