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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Say, that's an M. P.," said Bill Grey, catching Fuselli's arm. "Let's go ask him how near the front we are. I thought I heard guns a minute ago." "Did you? I guess we're in for it now," said Fuselli. "Say, buddy, how near the front are we?" they spoke together excitedly. "The front?" said the M. P., who was a red-faced Irishman with a crushed nose. "You're 'way back in the middle of France."
In Fuselli's company the men were shifting their weight from one foot to the other, muttering, "What the hell a' they waiting for now?" Bill Grey, next to Fuselli in the ranks, stood bent double so as to take the weight of his pack off his shoulders.
I might have been in the R.C. Vicker Company's store for five years an' never got a raise, an' here in the army I got a chance to do almost anything." Far ahead down the road the column was beginning to move. Voices shouting orders beat crisply on the morning air. Fuselli's heart was thumping. He felt proud of himself and of the company the damn best company in the whole outfit.
The train took up speed again; the clanging of car against car ceased and in a moment they were moving fast before Fuselli's eyes. Then the station was dark and empty again, and he was watching the red light grow smaller and paler while the train rumbled on into the darkness.
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