He woke up gradually, the warm comfort of sleep giving place slowly to the stiffness of his uncomfortable position with the hobnails of a boot from the back of a pack sticking into his shoulder. Andrews was sitting in the same position, lost in thought. The rest of the men sat at the open doors or sprawled over the equipment.
Chrisfield got up, stretched himself, yawned, and went to the door to look out. There was a heavy important step on the gravel outside. A large man with black eyebrows that met over his nose and a very black stubbly beard passed the car. There were a sergeants stripes on his arm.
“Say, Andy,” cried Chrisfield, “that bastard is a sergeant.”
“Who's that?” asked Andrews getting up with a smile, his blue eyes looking mildly into Chrisfield's black ones.
“You know who Ah mean.”
Under their heavy tan Chrisfield's rounded cheeks were flushed. His eyes snapped under their long black lashes. His fists were clutched.
“Oh, I know, Chris. I didn't know he was in this regiment.”
“God damn him!” muttered Chrisfield in a low voice, throwing himself down on his packs again.
“Hold your horses, Chris,” said Andrews. “We may all cash in our checks before long... no use letting things worry us.”
“I don't give a damn if we do.”