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Updated: June 18, 2025
When the first greyness began filtering into the car, they all stood up and stamped and pounded each other and wrestled to get warm. When it was nearly light, the train stopped and they opened the sliding doors. They were in a station, a foreign-looking station where the walls were plastered with unfamiliar advertisements. "V- E-R-S-A-I-L-L-E-S"; Fuselli spelt out the name.
At last the old woman shuffled into the shop and there was the sound of a key clicking hard in the outside door. When she came back, Fuselli said good-night to everyone and left by the back door into the court. There he leaned sulkily against the wall and waited in the dark, listening to the sounds that came from the house.
He put his arms round her and kissed her long on the mouth. "Demain," he said. She nodded her head. Fuselli walked fast up the dark street towards the camp. The blood pounded happily through his veins. He caught up with Eisenstein. "Say, Eisenstein," he said in a comradely voice, "I don't think you ought to go talking round like that. You'll get yourself in too deep one of these days."
They made room for him on the bench. "Well, I'm confined to barracks," said Dan Cohan. "Look at me!" He laughed and gave his head a curious swift jerk to one side. "Compree?" "Ain't ye scared they'll nab you?" said Fuselli. "Nab me, hell, they can't do nothin' to me. I've had three court- martials already and they're gettin' a fourth up on me." Dan Cohan pushed his head to one side and laughed.
"What's your name?" asked the lieutenant, speaking into the small nickel mirror, while he ran the safety razor obliquely across his throat. He stuttered a little. To Fuselli he seemed to speak like an Englishman. "Fuselli." "Italian parentage, I presume?" "Yes," said Fuselli sullenly, dragging one of the cots away from the wall. "Parla Italiano?" "You mean, do I speak Eyetalian?
The train smelt of new uniforms on which the sweat had dried, and of the smoke of cheap cigarettes. Fuselli awoke with a start. He had been asleep with his head on Bill Grey's shoulder. It was already broad daylight.
The "Y" man turned his set smile on Fuselli while he filled his tin cup up with chocolate. "How much?" "A franc; one of those looks like a quarter," said the "Y" man, his well-fed voice full of amiable condescension. "That's a hell of a lot for a cup of chauclate," said Fuselli. "You're at the war, young man, remember that," said the "Y" man severely. "You're lucky to get it at all."
Fuselli was staring at a door on one side of the bar. Men kept opening it and looking in and closing it again with a peculiar expression on their faces. Now and then someone would open it with a smile and go into the next room, shuffling his feet and closing the door carefully behind him. "Say, I wonder what they've got there," said the top sergeant, who had been staring at the door.
"Get the hell out of here." "Feel sick, sonny?" came the deep voice again, and the dark eyebrows contracted in an expression of sympathy. "Funny, I'd have my sixshooter out if I was home and you told me to get the hell out, sonny." "Well, who wouldn't be sore when they have to go on K.P.?" said Fuselli peevishly. "I ain't been down to mess in three days.
As he turned the corner he had a glimpse of Fuselli with his hands in his pockets and his legs crossed leaning against the wall behind the door of the barracks. The darkness, where the rain fell through the vague halos of light round the street lamps, glittered with streaks of pale gold.
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