pretended to be asleep.

“Who said that?” The first sergeant was furious. “I’ll work you birds till your shoes fall off.”

The room answered with loud and affected snores. The first sergeant, in all of his fierceness, disappeared.

[10]

[10]

II

It was morning.

Sergeant Kerfoot Harriman, bearing with proud satisfaction the learning and culture he had acquired in the course of three years at a small Middle-Western university, walked down the Rue de Dieu in a manner which carried the suggestion that he had forgotten the belt of his breeches.

Approaching a white two-story stone building which age and an occasional long-distance German shell had given an air of solemn decrepitude, Sergeant Harriman unbent enough to shout stiltedly: “Mailo! Mailo-ho!”

His reiterated announcement was unnecessary. Already half-dressed soldiers were rushing through the entrance of the building and toward the approaching sergeant.

“All right, you men. If you can’t appear in uniform get off of the company street.” Sergeant Harriman was commanding.

In their eagerness to hear the list of names called out the men forgot even to grumble, but scrambled back through the doorway overflowing the long hall off of which were six rooms,[11] devoid of furniture, which had been converted into barracks.

[11]

Sergeant Harriman, feeling the entire amount of pleasure to be had from the added importance of distributing the mail—the first the platoon had received in two months—cleared his throat, took a steadfast position and gave his attention to the small bundle of letters which he held in his hand.

He deftly riffled them twice without speaking. Then he separated the letters belonging to the non-commissioned officers, the corporals, and sergeants from those addressed to the privates. The non-commissioned officers received their letters first.

At last:

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