The Colonel came in at nightfall and asked about the wall. They told him that it was to cut off the recreation section from the sleeping quarters, for the protection of those who wanted more sleep to prepare for the grueling winter watches.
"Very good idea men," the Colonel said, and went upstairs to write another chapter in his book.
At nine the men disappeared into their bunks. O'Connors won the responsible job of peering through the narrow slit in the wall. Behind him could be heard the labored breathing of twenty-seven distraught men. One man snored. "Wake up, you stupid ass," Pane told Lanham. "You'll wreck the show."
At last the door opened and Blunt came in—with the girl.
She was breath-taking. She wore, O'Connors reported, a dress cut to here—and her hair was piled high on her patrician head. Blunt had not lied. She was even prettier than the usual run of Engraham girls.
"He's offering her a drink," O'Connors whispered.
"She take it?"
"No—she's sitting at the bar. He's having one, though. He's turning on the hi-fi."
He did not have to tell them, since all could hear the soft music. They had selected a program of melodies considered sure-fire.
"He's talking to her—putting his arm around her waist. Oh-oh. She knocked it off. She's laughing, though."