“If it only wasn't so goddam black.”
PART TWO: THE METAL COOLS I
It was purplish dusk outside the window. The rain fell steadily making long flashing stripes on the cracked panes, beating a hard monotonous tattoo on the tin roof overhead. Fuselli had taken off his wet slicker and stood in front of the window looking out dismally at the rain. Behind him was the smoking stove into which a man was poking wood, and beyond that a few broken folding chairs on which soldiers sprawled in attitudes of utter boredom, and the counter where the “Y” man stood with a set smile doling out chocolate to a line of men that filed past.
“Gee, you have to line up for everything here, don't you?” Fuselli muttered.
“That's about all you do do in this hell-hole, buddy,” said a man beside him.
The man pointed with his thumb at the window and said again:
“See that rain? Well, I been in this camp three weeks and it ain't stopped rainin' once. What d'yer think of that fer a country?”
“It certainly ain't like home,” said Fuselli. “I'm going to have some chauclate.”
“It's damn rotten.”
“I might as well try it once.”
Fuselli slouched over to the end of the line and stood waiting his turn. He was thinking of the steep streets of San Francisco and the glimpses he used to get of the harbor full of yellow lights, the color of amber in a cigarette holder, as he went home from work through the blue dusk. He had begun to think of Mabe handing him the five-pound box of candy when his attention was distracted by the talk of the men behind him. The man next to him was speaking with hurried nervous intonation. Fuselli could feel his breath on the back of his neck.
“I'll be goddamned,” the man said, “was you there too? Where d'you get yours?”
“In the leg; it's about all right, though.”
“I ain't. I won't never be all right. The doctor says I'm all
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