“Private Hicks,” he read off.

“Here, here I am. Back here.” Private Hicks was all aflutter. Separated from the letter by a crowd of men, he stood on tiptoe and reached his arm far over the shoulder of the man in front of him.

“Pass it back to him? Pass it back to him?” voices impatiently asked.

“No!” Sergeant Harriman was a commander, every inch of him. “Come up and get it, Hicks.”

[12]

[12]

“Hey, snap out of it, will ya! Call off the rest of the names.”

A path was made, and Hicks finally received the letter.

Harriman looked up. “If you men don’t shut up, you will never get your mail!”

“Private Pugh!”

“Hee-ah. Gimme that lettah. That’s f’m mah sweet mammah.” Pugh wormed his small, skinny body through the men, fretfully calling at those who did not make way quickly enough. He grasped the letter. Then he started back, putting the letter in his pocket unopened.

“Poor old Pugh. Gets a letter and he can’t read.”

“Ain’t that a waste of stationery?”

“Why don’t you ask the captain to write an’ tell your folks not to send you any more mail? Look at all the trouble you cause these mail clerks.”

Several men offered to read the letter to Pugh, but he did not answer.

An hour later the first sergeant was walking up and down in front of the billets, blowing his whistle. Bugle-calls were taboo.

“Shake it up, you men. Don’t you know[13] you’re supposed to be ready for drill at nine o’clock?”

[13]

“Drill! I thought we come up here to fight,” voices grumbled, muttering obscene phrases directed at General Pershing, the company commander, and the first sergeant.

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