Three Soldiers | Page 7

beside him.
The eyes were contracted with anger and there was a flush under the
tan of the boyish face.
"Ah didn't git in this here army to be ordered around by a goddam
wop," he muttered.
"Doesn't matter much who you're ordered around by, you're ordered
around just the same," said Andrews. "Where d'ye come from, buddy?"
"Oh, I come from New York. My folks are from Virginia," said
Andrews.

"Indiana's ma state. The tornado country.... Git to work; here's that
bastard wop comin' around the buildin'."
"Don't pick 'em up that-a-way; sweep 'em up," shouted the corporal.
Andrews and the Indiana boy went round with a broom and a shovel
collecting chewed-out quids of tobacco and cigar butts and stained bits
of paper.
"What's your name? Mahn's Chrisfield. Folks all call me Chris."
"Mine's Andrews, John Andrews."
"Ma dad uster have a hired man named Andy. Took sick an' died last
summer. How long d'ye reckon it'll be before us-guys git overseas?"
"God, I don't know."
"Ah want to see that country over there."
"You do?"
"Don't you?"
"You bet I do."
"All right, what you fellers stand here for? Go and dump them garbage
cans. Lively!" shouted the corporal waddling about importantly on his
bandy legs. He kept looking down the row of barracks, muttering to
himself, "Goddam.... Time fur inspectin' now, goddam. Won't never
pass this time."
His face froze suddenly into obsequious immobility. He brought his
hand up to the brim of his hat. A group of officers strode past him into
the nearest building.
John Andrews, coming back from emptying the garbage pails, went in
the back door of his barracks.

"Attention!" came the cry from the other end. He made his neck and
arms as rigid as possible.
Through the silent barracks came the hard clank of the heels of the
officers inspecting.
A sallow face with hollow eyes and heavy square jaw came close to
Andrews's eyes. He stared straight before him noting the few reddish
hairs on the officer's Adam's apple and the new insignia on either side
of his collar.
"Sergeant, who is this man?" came a voice from the sallow face.
"Don't know, sir; a new recruit, sir. Corporal Valori, who is this man?"
"The name's Andrews, sergeant," said the Italian corporal with an
obsequious whine in his voice.
The officer addressed Andrews directly, speaking fast and loud. "How
long have you been in the army?"
"One week, sir."
"Don't you know you have to be clean and shaved and ready for
inspection every Saturday morning at nine?"
"I was cleaning the barracks, sir."
"To teach you not to answer back when an officer addresses you...."
The officer spaced his words carefully, lingering on them. As he spoke
he glanced out of the corner of his eye at his superior and noticed the
major was frowning. His tone changed ever so slightly. "If this ever
occurs again you may be sure that disciplinary action will be taken....
Attention there!" At the other end of the barracks a man had moved.
Again, amid absolute silence, could be heard the clanking of the
officers' heels as the inspection continued.
"Now, fellows, all together," cried the "Y" man who stood with his
arms stretched wide in front of the movie screen. The piano started

jingling and the roomful of crowded soldiers roared out:
"Hail, Hail, the gang's all here; We're going to get the Kaiser, We're
going to get the Kaiser, We're going to get the Kaiser, Now!"
The rafters rang with their deep voices.
The "Y" man twisted his lean face into a facetious expression.
"Somebody tried to put one over on the 'Y' man and sing 'What the hell
do we care?' But you do care, don't you, Buddy?" he shouted.
There was a little rattle of laughter.
"Now, once more," said the "Y" man again, "and lots of guts in the get
and lots of kill in the Kaiser. Now all together.... "
The moving pictures had begun. John Andrews looked furtively about
him, at the face of the Indiana boy beside him intent on the screen, at
the tanned faces and the close-cropped heads that rose above the mass
of khaki-covered bodies about him. Here and there a pair of eyes
glinted in the white flickering light from the screen. Waves of laughter
or of little exclamations passed over them. They were all so alike, they
seemed at moments to be but one organism. 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