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Updated: May 18, 2025
The war is no good." "Funny, ain't it?" said Fuselli to the top sergeant, "a feller can't juss figure out what the war is like." "Don't you worry. We'll all get there," said the top sergeant knowingly. "This is the sarjon, Yvonne," said Fuselli. "Oui, oui, je sais," said Yvonne, smiling at the top sergeant.
The oxen took up again their quiet processional gait and the old man walked ahead of them, his eyes on the ground. "Say, ain't the frogs dumb?" "Say, Dan," said Bill Grey, strolling away from a group of men he had been talking to. "These guys say we are going to the Third Army." "Say, fellers," shouted Fuselli. "They say we're going to the Third Army." "Where's that?"
"Well, you come down town with me. I want to introjuce you to somebody." "Great!" "Say, Sarge, have they sent that appointment in yet?" "No, they haven't, Fuselli," said the top sergeant. "It's all made out," he added encouragingly. They walked towards the town silently. The evening was silvery- violet. The few windows in the old grey-green houses that were lighted shone orange.
"Fools," muttered Eisenstein, turning over and burying his face in his hands. "Gee, I wonder what it is makes it smell so funny down here," said Fuselli. Fuselli lay flat on deck resting his head on his crossed arms.
Fuselli and another man carried the dripping garbage-can up the ladder that led up from the mess hall. It smelt of rancid grease and coffee grounds and greasy juice trickled over their fingers as they struggled with it. At last they burst out on to the deck where a free wind blew out of the black night. They staggered unsteadily to the rail and emptied the pail into the darkness.
Somehow it made him think of the man behind the desk in the office of the draft board who had said, handing him the papers sending him to camp, "I wish I was going with you," and had held out a white bony hand that Fuselli, after a moment's hesitation, had taken in his own stubby brown hand.
A little man with a monkey-like greyish-brown face and spectacles appeared and slipped out of his overcoat, like a very small bean popping out of a very large pod. The sergeant's stripes looked unusually wide and conspicuous on his thin arm. He grunted at Fuselli, sat down at the desk, and began at once peering among the order slips.
Fuselli sat on the floor beside his bunk throwing his knife down so that it stuck in the boards between his knees. He was whistling softly to himself. The day dragged on. Several times he heard the town clock strike in the distance. At last the top sergeant came in, shaking the water off his slicker, a serious, important expression on his face. "Inspection of medical belts," he shouted.
In the middle of the dark oak table was a pot of hyacinths and some glasses that had had wine in them. The odor of the hyacinths hung in the air with a faint warm smell from the kitchen. After a second's hesitation, Fuselli sat down to wait until the others should leave. It was long after pay-day and his pockets were empty, so he had nowhere else to go.
"All right, old kid," said Bill Grey. They went together over to the door. Fuselli opened it and looked in. He let out a breath through his teeth with a faint whistling sound. "Gee, come in, Bill," he said, giggling. The room was small, nearly filled up by a dining table with a red cloth.
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