This was what he had sought when he had enlisted, he said to himself. It was in this that he would take refuge from the horror of the world that had fallen upon him. He was sick of revolt, of thought, of carrying his individuality like a banner above the turmoil. This was much better, to let everything go, to stamp out his maddening desire for music, to humble himself into the mud of common slavery. He was still tingling with sudden anger from the officer's voice that morning: “Sergeant, who is this man?” The officer had stared in his face, as a man might stare at a piece of furniture.     

       “Ain't this some film?” Chrisfield turned to him with a smile that drove his anger away in a pleasant feeling of comradeship.     

       “The part that's comin's fine. I seen it before out in Frisco,” said the man on the other side of Andrews. “Gee, it makes ye hate the Huns.”      

       The man at the piano jingled elaborately in the intermission between the two parts of the movie.     

       The Indiana boy leaned in front of John Andrews, putting an arm round his shoulders, and talked to the other man.     

       “You from Frisco?”      

       “Yare.”      

       “That's goddam funny. You're from the Coast, this feller's from New York, an' Ah'm from ole Indiana, right in the middle.”      

       “What company you in?”      

       “Ah ain't yet. This feller an me's in Casuals.”      

       “That's a hell of a place.... Say, my name's Fuselli.”      

       “Mahn's Chrisfield.”      

       “Mine's Andrews.”      

       “How soon's it take a feller to git out o' this camp?”      

       “Dunno. Some guys says three weeks and some says six months.... Say, mebbe you'll get into our company. They transferred a lot of men out the other day, an' the corporal says they're going to give us rookies instead.”      

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