These phrases,       “entrainment,” “order of march,” had a businesslike sound. He suddenly started to wonder how it would feel to be under fire. Memories of movies flickered in his mind.     

       “Gawd, ain't I glad to git out o' this hell-hole,” he said to the man next him.     

       “The next one may be more of a hell-hole yet, buddy,” said the sergeant striding up and down with his important confident walk.     

       Everybody laughed.     

       “He's some sergeant, our sergeant is,” said the man next to Fuselli. “He's got brains in his head, that boy has.”      

       “All right, break ranks,” said the sergeant, “but if anybody moves away from this barracks, I'll put him in K. P. Till—till he'll be able to peel spuds in his sleep.”      

       The company laughed again. Fuselli noticed with displeasure that the tall man with the shrill voice whose name had been called first on the roll did not laugh but spat disgustedly out of the corner of his mouth.     

       “Well, there are bad eggs in every good bunch,” thought Fuselli.     

       It gradually grew grey with dawn. Fuselli's legs were tired from standing so long. Outside all the barracks, as far as he could see up the street, men stood in ragged lines waiting.     

       The sun rose hot on a cloudless day. A few sparrows twittered about the tin roof of the barracks.     

       “Hell, we're not goin' this day.”      

       “Why?” asked somebody savagely.     

       “Troops always leaves at night.”      

       “The hell they do!”      

       “Here comes Sarge.”      

       Everybody craned their necks in the direction pointed out.     

       The sergeant strolled up with a mysterious smile on his face.     

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