“I worked three years in an optical-goods store at home in Frisco.”
“What's your name, rank, company?”
“Daniel Fuselli, Private 1st-class, Company C, medical supply warehouse.”
“All right, I'll attend to it.”
“But, sergeant.”
“All right; out with what you've got to say, quick.” The sergeant-major fingered the leaves of his magazine impatiently.
“My company's all packed up to go. The transfer'll have to be today, sergeant.”
“Why the hell didn't you come in earlier?... Stevens, make out a transfer to headquarters company and get the major to sign it when he goes through.... That's the way it always is,” he cried, leaning back tragically in his swivel chair. “Everybody always puts everything off on me at the last minute.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Fuselli, smiling. The sergeant-major ran his hand through his hair and took up his magazine again peevishly.
Fuselli hurried back to barracks where he found the company still waiting. Several men were crouched in a circle playing craps. The rest lounged in their bare bunks or fiddled with their packs. Outside it had begun to rain softly, and a smell of wet sprouting earth came in through the open door. Fuselli sat on the floor beside his bunk throwing his knife down so that it stuck in the boards between his knees. He was whistling softly to himself. The day dragged on. Several times he heard the town clock strike in the distance.