"Chef says we may go en repos in three days," he said, throwing himself on the ground beside the other two.
"We've heard that before," said Tom Randolph. "Division hasn't started out yet, ole boy; an' we're the last of the division."
"God, I'll be glad to go.... I'm dead," said Russell.
"I was up all last night with dysentery."
"So was I.... It was not funny; first it'd be vomiting, and then diarrhœa, and then the shells'd start coming in. Gave me a merry time of it."
"They say it's the gas," said Martin.
"God, the gas! Turns me sick to think of it," said Russell, stroking his forehead with his hand. "Did I tell you about what happened to me the night after the attack, up in the woods?"
"No."
"Well, I was bringing a load of wounded down from P.J. Right and I'd got just beyond the corner where the little muddy hill is—you know, where they're always shelling—when I found the road blocked. It was so God-damned black you couldn't see your hand in front of you. A camion'd gone off the road and another had run into it, and everything was littered with boxes of shells spilt about."
"Must have been real nice," said Randolph.