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Updated: May 18, 2025
As he went to sleep Fuselli could hear the man beside him swearing, monotonously, in an even whisper, pausing now and then to think of new filth, of new combinations of words, swearing away his helpless anger, soothing himself to sleep by the monotonous reiteration of his swearing. A little later Fuselli woke with a choked nightmare cry.
On the opposite platform crowds of little men in blue with mustaches and long, soiled overcoats that reached almost to their feet were shouting and singing. Fuselli watched them with a faint disgust. "Gee, they got funny lookin' helmets, ain't they?" "They're the best fighters in the world," said Eisenstein, "not that that's sayin' much about a man."
"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."
"Well; what d'ye reckon's goin' on at the front now?" said Meadville. "Damned of I know. The goddam hospital at Orleans was so full up there was guys in stretchers waiting all day on the pavement outside. I know that.... Fellers there said hell'd broke loose for fair. Looks to me like the Fritzies was advancin'." Meadville looked at him incredulously. "Those skunks?" said Fuselli.
Everybody sang as the thumping of wheels over rails grew faster. Fuselli looked about contentedly at the company sprawling over their packs and equipment in the smoky car. "It's great to be a soldier," he said to Bill Grey. "Ye kin do anything ye goddam please."
As he was walking away, he strolled up to the two men he had heard talking. "Were you fellows in Cosne?" "Sure." "Did you know a fellow named Fuselli?" "I dunno...." "Sure, you do," said the other man. "You remember Dan Fuselli, the little wop thought he was goin' to be corporal." "He had another think comin'." They both laughed. Andrews walked off, vaguely angry.
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.
He stood quiet letting the acrid cigarette smoke drift out through his nose, his ears full of the silvery tinkle of the water in the fountain beside him. There were little drifts of warm and chilly air in the breeze that blew fitfully from the west. Fuselli was waiting. He took out his watch now and then and strained his eyes to see the time, but there was not light enough.
"Now you've got to get him up," said the sergeant to the two guards. Fuselli walked away. "Ain't some people damn fools?" he said to a man at the other end of the barracks. He stood looking out of the window at the bright sheets of the rain. "Well, get him up," shouted the sergeant. The boy lay with his eyes closed, his chalk-white face half-hidden by the blankets; he was very still.
"I don't care!" "But, hell, man, you don't want to get in the wrong that bad. They shoot fellers for less than you said." "Let them." "Christ, man, you don't want to be a damn fool," expostulated Fuselli. "How old are you, Fuselli?" "I'm twenty now." "I'm thirty. I've lived more, kid. I know what's good and what's bad. This butchery makes me unhappy." "God, I know. It's a hell of a note.
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