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Updated: May 9, 2025
An officer went up to her, a little red book in his hand. A conversation about some matter proceeded painfully. The officer grew very red. Andrews threw back his head and laughed, luxuriously rolling from side to side in the straw. Chrisfield laughed too, he hardly knew why. Over their heads they could hear the feet of pigeons on the roof, and a constant drowsy rou-cou- cou-cou.
A wind had come up, making the woods resound. A shower of yellow leaves dropped about them. "First you was a corporal, then you was a sergeant, and now you're a lootenant," said Chrisfield slowly. "You'ld better tell me where Colonel Evans is.... You must know.... He's up that road somewhere," said Anderson, struggling to get to his feet. Chrisfield walked away without answering.
Near the field kitchen Chrisfield saw Sergeant Anderson talking with Higgins, his own sergeant. They were laughing together, and he heard Anderson's big voice saying jovially, "We've pulled through this time, Higgins.... I guess we will again." The two sergeants looked at each other and cast a paternal, condescending glance over their men and laughed aloud.
Later he came to a lane that cut straight through the wood where there were many ruts through the putty-coloured mud puddles; Down the lane in a patch of sunlight he saw a figure, towards which he hurried. It was a young man with red hair and a pink-and-white face. By a gold bar on the collar of his shirt Chrisfield saw that he was a lieutenant.
Andrews was sitting in the same position, lost in thought. The rest of the men sat at the open doors or sprawled over the equipment. Chrisfield got up, stretched himself, yawned, and went to the door to look out. There was a heavy important step on the gravel outside. A large man with black eyebrows that met over his nose and a very black stubbly beard passed the car.
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.
Automatically he had changed his position to parade rest. Somewhere far away a little man was walking towards the long drab lines. A wind had come up, rustling the stiff leaves of the grove of walnut trees. The voice squeaked above it, but Chrisfield could not make out what it said.
Chrisfield felt suddenly cool and joyous. He felt anger taking possession of him. He seemed to be standing somewhere away from himself watching himself get angry. "This place has got to be cleaned up.... That damn General may come back to look over quarters," went on Anderson coolly. "You call me a goddam liar," said Chrisfield again, putting as much insolence as he could summon into his voice.
Chrisfield turned cold all over when he saw the white heavy face of Anderson; an unshaven beard was very black on his square chin; there was a long scratch clotted with dried blood from the heavy eyebrow across the left cheek to the corner of the mouth. "Give me some water, buddy," said Anderson in a weak voice. Chrisfield handed him his canteen roughly in silence.
The last time he had seen that man Anderson was at training camp. He had only been a corporal then. He remembered the day the man had been made corporal. It had not been long before that that Chrisfield had drawn his knife on him, one night in the barracks. A fellow had caught his hand just in time. Anderson had looked a bit pale that time and had walked away.
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