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Updated: May 21, 2025
Fuselli's mind was full of the army regulations which he had been studying assiduously for the last week. He was thinking of an imaginary examination for the corporalship, which he would pass, of course. When the company was dismissed, he went up familiarly to the top sergeant: "Say, Sarge, doin' anything this evenin'?" "What the hell can a man do when he's broke?" said the top sergeant.
Fuselli went back to the barracks, took off his pack and slicker and wiped the water off his face. The rails gleamed gold in the early morning sunshine above the deep purple cinders of the track. Fuselli's eyes followed the track until it curved into a cutting where the wet clay was a bright orange in the clear light.
"A German officer crossed the Rhine; Parley voo? A German officer crossed the Rhine; He loved the women and liked the wine; Hanky Panky, parley voo.... " "Listen to this, fellers," said the man in his twitching nervous voice, staring straight into Fuselli's eyes. "We made a little attack to straighten out our trenches a bit just before I got winged.
Fuselli's eyes followed the curves of his brilliantly-polished puttees up to the braid on his sleeves. "Parade rest!" shouted the lieutenant in a muffled voice. Feet and hands moved in unison. Fuselli was thinking of the town.
"Well, there are bad eggs in every good bunch," thought Fuselli. It gradually grew grey with dawn. Fuselli's legs were tired from standing so long. Outside all the barracks, as far as he could see up the street, men stood in ragged lines waiting. The sun rose hot on a cloudless day. A few sparrows twittered about the tin roof of the barracks. "Hell, we're not goin' this day."
"A feller told me, Sergeant-Major, that you was look-in' for a man with optical experience;" Fuselli's voice was velvety. "Well?" "I worked three years in an optical-goods store at home in Frisco." "What's your name, rank, company?" "Daniel Fuselli, Private 1st-class, Company C, medical supply warehouse." "All right, I'll attend to it." "But, sergeant."
He had a yellow parchment face and a high, gaunt forehead going up to sparse, curly brown hair. His eyes had a glassy look about them when they met Fuselli's. He smiled amiably. "Oh, there's the kid who's seen Fritzies' helmets in the movies.... Come on, buddy, come and have a beer at the English canteen." "Can you get beer?" "Sure, over in the English camp." They went out into the slanting rain.
"Doin' nothin' but pack bandages in packin' cases and take bandages out of packin' cases. I'll go crazy. I've tried gettin' drunk; it don't do no good." "Gee; I've got a head," said Fuselli. Bill Grey put his heavy muscular hand round Fuselli's shoulder as they strolled towards the barracks. "Say, Dan, I'm goin' A. W. O. L." "Don't ye do it, Bill. Hell, look at the chance we've got to get ahead.
All down the camp street companies were forming. One by one they marched out in columns of fours and halted with their packs on. The day was getting amber with sunset. Retreat sounded. Fuselli's mind had suddenly become very active. The notes of the bugle and of the band playing "The Star Spangled Banner" sifted into his consciousness through a dream of what it would be like over there.
After standing in line a while, Fuselli's cup was handed back to him across the counter, foaming with beer. "Hello, Fuselli," Meadville clapped him on the shoulder. "You found the liquor pretty damn quick, looks like to me." Fuselli laughed. "May I sit with you fellers?" "Sure, come along," said Fuselli proudly, "these guys have been to the front." "You have?" asked Meadville.
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