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Updated: May 25, 2025
The river glittered about the piers of the wrecked stone bridge, and disappeared between rows of yellow poplars. Somewhere in the valley a big gun fired. The shell shrieked into the distance, towards the blue, peaceful hills. Chrisfield's regiment was moving again. The men, their feet slipping in the clayey mud, went downhill with long strides, the straps of their packs tugging at their shoulders.
Chrisfield's eyes blinked. Automatically he got to his feet; it might be an officer. His eyes focussed suddenly. It was Anderson's face that was between him and the light. In the greenish obscurity the skin looked chalk-white in contrast to the heavy eyebrows that met over the nose and the dark stubble on the chin. "How is it you ain't out with the company?"
Ah thought you was a Frenchman, Andy.... Ah guess you got yer dis-charge then. God, Ah'm glad." "I'm glad I look like a Frenchman, anyway.... Been on leave long, Chris?" Two buttons were off the front of Chrisfield's uniform; there were streaks of dirt on his face, and his puttees were clothed with mud. He looked Andrews seriously in the eyes, and shook his head. "No.
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.
Their steps grew brisker as they strode along a grass-grown road that led through high hedgerows to a village under the brow of the hill. It was almost dark under the shadow of the bushes on either side. Overhead the purple clouds were washed over by a pale yellow light that gradually faded to grey. Birds chirped and rustled among the young leaves. Andrews put his hand on Chrisfield's shoulder.
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