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Updated: May 9, 2025
Andrews leaned back against the wall sipping his dark-colored wine, his eyes contracted dreamily, fixed on the shadow of the chandelier, which the cheap oil-lamp with its tin reflector cast on the peeling plaster of the wall opposite. Chrisfield punched him. "Wake up, Andy, are you asleep?" "No," said Andy smiling. "Have a li'l mo' cognac." Chrisfield poured out two more glasses unsteadily.
"Ye might ask 'em to come down and help us pick the cooties off," said Chrisfield and followed in Andrews's wake. In the middle he lay on a sand bank in the warm shallow water and looked back at the "Y" man, who still stood on the bank.
The pupils seemed to grow smaller as they fastened on the bit of daintily colored paper. He crumpled it up suddenly in his fist and shoved it down between her breasts. Some time later Chrisfield sat down in front of Andrews. He still had his wet slicker on. "Ah guess you think Ah'm a swine," he said in his normal voice. "Ah guess you're about right." "No, I don't," said Andrews.
The "put, put, put" of a machine gun had begun somewhere. Chrisfield strode up the hill in step with his friend. Behind them bomb followed bomb, and above them the air seemed full of exploding shrapnel and droning planes. The cognac still throbbed a little in their blood. They stumbled against each other now and then as they walked. From the top of the hill they turned and looked back.
How li'l everythin' is," said Chrisfield. "Out Indiana way we wouldn't look at a cornfield that size. But it sort o' reminds me the way it used to be out home in the spring o' the year." "I'd like to see Indiana in the springtime," said Andrews. "Well you'll come out when the war's over and us guys is all home...won't you, Andy?" "You bet I will." They were going into the suburbs of a town.
Through the barnyard smells began to drift...the greasiness of food cooking in the field kitchen. "Ah hope they give us somethin' good to eat," said Chrisfield. "Ah'm hongry as a thrasher." "So am I," said Andrews. "Say, Andy, you kin talk their language a li'l', can't ye?" Andrews nodded his head vaguely. "Well, maybe we kin git some aigs or somethin' out of the lady down there.
Through the smells of steam and coal smoke and of unwashed bodies in uniforms came smells of moist fields and of manure from fresh- sowed patches and of cows and pasture lands just coming into flower. "Must be right smart o'craps in this country.... Ain't like that damn Polignac, Andy?" said Chrisfield. "Well, they made us drill so hard there wasn't any time for the grass to grow."
The voice faded into the distance until it could not be heard above the sound of the guns. "Gee, Ah'm kind o' cut up 'bout that lady," said Chrisfield. "Well, ain't we saved her from the Huns?" "Andy don't think so." "Well, if you want to know what I think about that guy Andy I don't think much of him. I think he's yaller, that's all," said Judkins. "No, he ain't." "I heard the lootenant say so.
Then he added in a tone of conviction, "That's great." "Better come in, too," said Andrews. "Thanks, thanks.... Say, if you don't mind my suggestion, why don't you fellers get under the water.... You see there's two French girls looking at you from the road." The "Y" man giggled faintly. "They don't mind," said Andrews soaping, himself vigorously. "Ah reckon they lahk it," said Chrisfield.
"Anderson's gone to an O. T. C. Left day before yesterday." Chrisfield was out in the rain again. It was beating straight in his face, so that his eyes were full of water. He was trembling. He had suddenly become terrified. The smooth stick he held seemed to burn him. He was straining his ears for an explosion.
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