Three Soldiers | Page 5

went to sleep Fuselli could hear the man beside him swearing,
monotonously, in an even whisper, pausing now and then to think of
new filth, of new combinations of words, swearing away his helpless
anger, soothing himself to sleep by the monotonous reiteration of his
swearing.
A little later Fuselli woke with a choked nightmare cry. He had
dreamed that he had smashed the O. D. in the jaw and had broken out
of the jug and was running, breathless, stumbling, falling, while the
company on guard chased him down an avenue lined with little
dried-up saplings, gaining on him, while with voices metallic as the
clicking of rifle triggers officers shouted orders, so that he was certain
to be caught, certain to be shot. He shook himself all over, shaking off
the nightmare as a dog shakes off water, and went back to sleep again,
snuggling into his blankets.

II
John Andrews stood naked in the center of a large bare room, of which
the walls and ceiling and floor were made of raw pine boards. The air
was heavy from the steam heat. At a desk in one corner a typewriter
clicked spasmodically.
"Say, young feller, d'you know how to spell imbecility?"
John Andrews walked over to the desk, told him, and added, "Are you
going to examine me?"
The man went on typewriting without answering. John Andrews stood
in the center of the floor with his arms folded, half amused, half angry,
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the sound of
the typewriter and of the man's voice as he read out each word of the
report he was copying.
"Recommendation for discharge"...click, click..."Damn this
typewriter.... Private Coe Elbert"...click, click. "Damn these rotten
army typewriters.... Reason...mental deficiency. History of Case.... " At
that moment the recruiting sergeant came back. "Look here, if you don't
have that recommendation ready in ten minutes Captain Arthurs'll be
mad as hell about it, Hill. For God's sake get it done. He said already
that if you couldn't do the work, to get somebody who could. You don't
want to lose your job do you?"
"Hullo," the sergeant's eyes lit on John Andrews, "I'd forgotten you.
Run around the room a little.... No, not that way. Just a little so I can
test yer heart.... God, these rookies are thick."
While he stood tamely being prodded and measured, feeling like a prize
horse at a fair, John Andrews listened to the man at the typewriter,
whose voice went on monotonously. "No...record of sexual dep.... O
hell, this eraser's no good!... pravity or alcoholism;
spent...normal...youth on farm. App-ear-ance normal though im...say,
how many 'm's' in immature?"

"All right, put yer clothes on," said the recruiting sergeant. "Quick, I
can't spend all day. Why the hell did they send you down here alone?"
"The papers were balled up," said Andrews.
"Scores ten years...in test B," went on the voice of the man at the
typewriter. "Sen...exal ment...m-e-n-t-a-l-i-t-y that of child of eight.
Seems unable...to either.... Goddam this man's writin'. How kin I copy
it when he don't write out his words?"
"All right. I guess you'll do. Now there are some forms to fill out.
Come over here."
Andrews followed the recruiting sergeant to a desk in the far corner of
the room, from which he could hear more faintly the click, click of the
typewriter and the man's voice mumbling angrily.
"Forgets to obey orders.... Responds to no form of per...suasion.
M-e-m-o-r-y, nil."
"All right. Take this to barracks B.... Fourth building, to the right; shake
a leg," said the recruiting sergeant.
Andrews drew a deep breath of the sparkling air outside. He stood
irresolutely a moment on the wooden steps of the building looking
down the row of hastily constructed barracks. Some were painted green,
some were of plain boards, and some were still mere skeletons. Above
his head great piled, rose-tinted clouds were moving slowly across the
immeasurable free sky. His glance slid down the sky to some tall trees
that flamed bright yellow with autumn outside the camp limits, and
then to the end of the long street of barracks, where was a picket fence
and a sentry walking to and fro, to and fro. His brows contracted for a
moment. Then he walked with a sort of swagger towards the fourth
building to the right.

John Andrews was washing windows. He stood in dirty blue denims at
the top of a ladder, smearing with a soapy cloth the small panes of the

barrack windows. His nostrils were full of a smell of dust and of the
sandy quality of the soap. A little man with one lined greyish-red cheek
puffed out by tobacco followed him up also on a ladder, polishing the
panes with a dry