“You told him you came from Marseilles, and him you came from Lyon,” said the boy with the milky complexion, smiling genially. “Vraiment de ou venay vous?”
“I come from everywhere,” she said, and tossed the hair back from her face.
“Travelled a lot?” asked the boy again.
“A feller told me,” said Fuselli to Bill Grey, “that he’d talked to a girl like that who’d been to Turkey an’ Egypt… I bet that girl’s seen some life.”
The woman jumped to her feet suddenly screaming with rage. The man with the red hair moved away sheepishly. Then he lifted his large dirty hands in the air.
“Kamarad,” he said.
Nobody laughed. The room was silent except for feet scraping occasionally on the floor.
She put her hat on and took a little box from the chain bag in her lap and began powdering her face, making faces into the mirror she held in the palm of her hand.
The men stared at her.
“Guess she thinks she’s the Queen of the May,” said one man, getting to his feet. He leaned across the table and spat into the fireplace. “I’m going back to barracks.” He turned to the woman and shouted in a voice full of hatred, “Bon swar.”
The woman was putting the powder puff away in her jet bag. She did not look up; the door closed sharply.
“Come along,” said the woman, suddenly, tossing her head back. “Come along; who go with me?”
Nobody spoke. The men stared at her silently. There was no sound except that of feet scraping occasionally on the floor.
III
THE oatmeal flopped heavily into the mess-kit. Fuselli’s eyes were still glued together with sleep. He sat at the dark greasy bench and took a gulp of the scalding coffee that smelt vaguely of dish rags. That woke him up a little. There was little talk in the mess shack. The men, that the bugle had wrenched out of their blankets but fifteen minutes before, sat in rows, eating sullenly or blinking at each other through the misty darkness. You could hear feet scraping in the ashes of the floor and mess kits clattering against the tables and here and there a man coughing. Near the counter where the food was served out one of the cooks swore interminably in a whiny sing-song voice.
“Gee, Bill, I’ve got a head,” said Fuselli.
“Ye’re ought to have,” growled Bill Grey. “I had to carry you up into the barracks. You said you were goin’ back and love up that goddam girl.”
“Did I?” said Fuselli, giggling.
“I had a hell of a time getting you past the guard.”
“Some cognac!… I got a hangover now,” said Fuselli.
“I’m goddamned if I can go this much longer.”
“What?”
They were washing their mess-kits in the tub of warm water thick with grease from the hundred mess-kits that had gone before, in front of the shack. An electric light illumined faintly the wet trunk of a plane tree and the surface of the water where bits of oatmeal floated and coffee grounds, — and the garbage pails with their painted signs: WET GARBAGE, DRY GARBAGE; and the line of men who stood waiting to reach the tub.
“This hell of a life!” said Bill Grey, savagely.
“What d’ye mean?”
“Doin’ nothin’ but pack bandages in packin’ cases and take bandages out of packin’ cases. I’ll go crazy. I’ve tried gettin’ drunk; it don’t do no good.”
“Gee; I’ve got a head,” said Fuselli.
Bill Grey put his heavy muscular hand round Fuselli’s shoulder as they strolled towards the barracks.
“Say, Dan, I’m goin’ A. W. O. L.”
“Don’t ye do it, Bill. Hell, look at the chance we’ve got to get ahead. We can both of us get promoted if we don’t get in wrong.”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell for all that… What d’ye think I got in this goddamed army for? Because I thought I’d look nice in the uniform?”
Bill Grey thrust his hands into his pockets and spat dismally in front of him.
“But, Bill, you don’t want to stay a buck private, do you?”
“I want to get to the front I don’t want to stay here till I get in the jug for being spiffed or get a court-martial… Say, Dan, will you come with me?”
“Hell, Bill, you ain’t goin’. You’re just kiddin’, ain’t yer?… They’ll send us there soon enough. I want to get to be a corporal,”-he puffed out his chest a little-“before I go to the front, so’s to be able to show what I’m good for. See, Bill?”
A bugle blew.
“There’s fatigue, an’ I ain’t done my bunk.”
“Me neither… They won’t do nothin’, Dan… Don’t let them ride yer, Dan.”
They lined up in the dark road feeling the mud slopping under their feet. The ruts were full of black water, in which gleamed a reflection of distant electric lights.
“All you fellows work in Storehouse A today,” said the sergeant, who had been a preacher, in his sad, drawling voice. “Lieutenant says that’s all got to be finished by noon. They’re sending it to the front today.”
Somebody let his breath out in a whistle of surprise.
“Who did that?”
Nobody answered.
“Dismissed!” snapped the sergeant disgustedly.
They straggled off into the darkness towards one of the lights, their feet splashing confusedly in the puddles.
Fuselli strolled up to the sentry at the camp gate. He was picking his teeth meditatively with the splinter of a pine board.
“Say, Phil, you couldn’t lend me a half a dollar, could you?” Fuselli stopped, put his hands in his pockets and looked at the sentry with the splinter sticking out of a corner of his mouth.
“Sorry, Dan,” said the other man; “I’m cleaned out. Ain’t had a cent since New Year’s.”
“Why the hell don’t they pay us?”
“You guys signed the pay roll yet?”
“Sure. So long!”
Fuselli strolled on down the dark road, where the mud was frozen into deep ruts, towards the town. It was still strange to him, this town of little houses faced with cracked stucco, where the damp made grey stains and green stains, of confused red-tiled roofs, and of narrow cobbled streets that zigzagged in and out among high walls overhung with balconies. At night, when it was dark except for where a lamp in a window spilt gold reflections out on the wet street or the light streamed out from a store or a café, it was almost frighteningly unreal. He walked down into the main square, where he could hear the fountain gurgling. In the middle he stopped indecisively, his coat unbuttoned, his hands pushed to the bottom of his trousers pockets, where they encountered nothing but the cloth. He listened a long time to the gurgling of the fountain and to the shunting of trains far away in the freight yards. “An’ this is the war,” he thought. “Ain’t it queer? It’s quieter than it was at home nights.” Down the street at the end of the square a band of white light appeared, the searchlight of a staff car. The two eyes of the car stared straight into his eyes, dazzling him, then veered off to one side and whizzed past, leaving a faint smell of petrol and a sound of voices. Fuselli watched the fronts of houses light up as the car made its way to the main road. Then the town was dark and silent again.
He strolled across the square towards the Cheval Blanc, the large café where the officers went.
“Button yer coat,” came a gruff voice. He saw a stiff tall f igure at the edge of the curve. He made out the shape of the pistol holster that hung like a thin ham at the man’s thigh. An M. P. He buttoned his coat hurriedly and walked off with rapid steps.
He stopped outside a café that had “Ham and Eggs” written in white paint on the window and looked in wistfully. Someone from behind him put two big hands over his eyes. He wriggled his head free.