a shovel collecting chewed-out quids of tobacco and cigar butts and stained bits of paper.
“What's your name? Mahn's Chrisfield. Folks all call me Chris.”
“Mine's Andrews, John Andrews.”
“Ma dad uster have a hired man named Andy. Took sick an' died last summer. How long d'ye reckon it'll be before us-guys git overseas?”
“God, I don't know.”
“Ah want to see that country over there.”
“You do?”
“Don't you?”
“You bet I do.”
“All right, what you fellers stand here for? Go and dump them garbage cans. Lively!” shouted the corporal waddling about importantly on his bandy legs. He kept looking down the row of barracks, muttering to himself, “Goddam.... Time fur inspectin' now, goddam. Won't never pass this time.”
His face froze suddenly into obsequious immobility. He brought his hand up to the brim of his hat. A group of officers strode past him into the nearest building.
John Andrews, coming back from emptying the garbage pails, went in the back door of his barracks.
“Attention!” came the cry from the other end. He made his neck and arms as rigid as possible.
Through the silent barracks came the hard clank of the heels of the officers inspecting.
A sallow face with hollow eyes and heavy square jaw came close to Andrews's eyes. He stared straight before him noting the few reddish hairs on the officer's Adam's apple and the new insignia on either side of his collar.
“Sergeant, who is this man?” came a voice from the sallow face.
“Don't know, sir; a new recruit, sir. Corporal Valori, who is this man?”
“The name's Andrews, sergeant,” said the Italian corporal with an obsequious whine in his voice.
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