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Updated: July 18, 2025
Dirty water slushed about from one side of the passage to the other with every lurch of the ship. When he reached the door the whistling howl of the wind through the hinges and cracks made Fuselli hesitate a long time with his hand on the knob. The moment he turned the knob the door flew open and he was in the full sweep of the wind. The deck was deserted.
Naw, sir," said Fuselli emphatically, "I was born in Frisco." "Indeed? But get me some more water, will you, please?" When Fuselli came back, he stood with his broom between his knees, blowing on his hands that were blue and stiff from carrying the heavy bucket. The lieutenant was dressed and was hooking the top hook of the uniform carefully. The collar made a red mark on his pink throat.
She looked with a certain defiance at the men who stood about the walls and sat at the table. The men stared at her silently. A big man with red hair and a heavy jaw who sat next her kept edging up nearer. Someone knocked against the table making the bottles and liqueur glasses clustered in the center jingle. "She ain't clean; she's got bobbed hair," said the man next Fuselli.
"Shut up, you don't want the Huns to hear us, do you?" The company laughed, and there was a broad grin on the sergeant's round face. "Seem to have a pretty decent top-kicker," whispered Fuselli to the man next to him. "You bet yer, kid, he's a peach," said the other man in a voice full of devotion. "This is some company, I can tell you that." "You bet it is," said the next man along.
The station platform, where puddles from the night's rain glittered as the wind ruffled them, was empty. Fuselli started walking up and down with his hands in his pockets. He had been sent down to unload some supplies that were coming on that morning's train. He felt free and successful since he joined the headquarters company!
Fuselli was packing medical supplies in a box in a great brownish warehouse full of packing cases where a little sun filtered in through the dusty air at the corrugated sliding tin doors. As he worked, he listened to Daniels talking to Meadville who worked beside him. "An' the gas is the goddamndest stuff I ever heard of," he was saying.
"We're bound for Palm Beach. Don't we look it?" someone snarled in reply. But Fuselli had seen a familiar face. He was shaking hands with two browned men whose faces were grimy with days of travelling in freight cars. "Hullo, Chrisfield. Hullo, Andrews!" he cried. "When did you fellows get over here?" "Oh, 'bout four months ago," said Chrisfield, whose black eyes looked at Fuselli searchingly.
The champagne fizzed into the beer-glasses. "This is the life," said Fuselli. "Ye're damn right, buddy, if yer don't let them ride yer," said Dan. "What they got yer up for now, Dan?" "Murder." "Murder, hell! How's that?" "That is, if that bloke dies." "The hell you say!" "It all started by that goddam convoy down from Nantes...Bill Rees an' me.... They called us the shock troops. Hy! Marie!
Fuselli remembered the pamphlet "German Atrocities" he had read one night in the Y. M. C. A. His mind became suddenly filled with pictures of children with their arms cut off, of babies spitted on bayonets, of women strapped on tables and violated by soldier after soldier. He thought of Mabe. He wished he were in a combatant service; he wanted to fight, fight.
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