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Updated: June 9, 2025
"Never mind, Chris; they won't do nothin' to ye," said Jenkins, grinning at him good-naturedly from the door. "Ah doan give a hoot in hell what they do," said Chrisfield again. He lay back in his bunk and looked at the ceiling. The barracks was full of a bustle of cleaning up. Judkins was sweeping the floor with a broom made of dry sticks.
"I tell you, fellers," he said, "war ain't no picnic." Chrisfield stood up and grabbed at an apple. His teeth crunched into it. "Sweet," he said. "Sweet, nauthin'," mumbled Judkins, "war ain't no picnic.... I tell you, buddy, if you take any prisoners" he hiccoughed "after what the Colonel said, I'll lick the spots out of you, by God I will.... Rip up their guts that's all, like they was dummies.
The man shambled in front of him; he was trembling so hard he nearly fell with each step. Chrisfield kicked him. The man shambled on without turning round. Chrisfield kicked him again, feeling the point of the man's spine and the soft flesh of his rump against his toes with each kick, laughing so hard all the while that he could hardly see where he was going. "Halt!" came a voice.
He could feel his shoulders becoming raw under the tugging of the pack. Now and then the flare from aeroplane bombs behind him showed up wrecked trucks on the side of the road. Somewhere a machine gun spluttered. But the column tramped on, weighed down by the packs, by the deadening exhaustion. The turbulent flaring darkness was calming to the grey of dawn when Chrisfield stopped marching.
Chrisfield felt it stirring the moist hair on his forehead and through the buzzing haze of the cognac heard the plunk, plunk, plunk of apples dropping that followed each gust, and the twanging of night insects, and, far in the distance, the endless rumble of guns, like tomtoms beaten for a dance. "Ye heard what the Colonel said, didn't ye?" said Judkins in a voice hoarse from too much drink.
"What d'you think about it?" said Andrews, turning to the Chink. The Chink shook his head without answering. Andrews went out. When he cams back he found Al and Chrisfield alone in their room. Chrisfield was walking up and down, biting his finger nails. On the wall opposite the window was a square of sunshine reflected from the opposite wall of the Court. "For God's sake beat it, Chris.
Guards had been posted and walked up and down with a business-like stride, peering now and then suspiciously into the little wood where the truck-drivers were. Chrisfield and Andrews crawled into their little tent and rolled up together in their blankets, getting as close to each other as they could.
He sat on the edge of the bunk, wriggling in his clothes, for his body crawled with lice. "Gee, it's funny to be in where the Fritzies were not long ago," he heard a voice say. "Kiddo! we're advancin'," came another voice. "But, hell, this ain't no kind of an advance. I ain't seen a German yet." "Ah kin smell 'em though," said Chrisfield, getting suddenly to his feet.
"Ah bet it's hell out there," said Chrisfield. "I feel better," said Judkins. "Let's go get some more cognac." "Ah'm hungry," said Chrisfield. "Let's go an' get that ole woman to cook us some aigs." "Too damn late," growled Judkins. "How the hell late is it?" "Dunno, I sold my watch." They were walking at random through the orchard.
"Tell me we're going into the line in a day or two." "There's been a devil of a lot of artillery going up the road; French, British, every old kind." "Tell me they's raisin' hell in the Oregon forest." They walked slowly across the road. A motorcycle despatch-rider whizzed past them. "It's them guys has the fun," said Chrisfield. "I don't believe anybody has much." "What about the officers?"
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