“I guess all the barrage we're going to see's grenade practice.”
“Don't you worry, buddy,” said somebody across the room.
“You'll see enough of it. This war's going to last damn long....”
“Ah'd lak to get in some licks at those Huns tonight; honest to Gawd Ah would, Andy,” muttered Chris in a low voice. He felt his muscles contract with a furious irritation. He looked through half-closed eyes at the men in the room, seeing them in distorted white lights and reddish shadows. He thought of himself throwing a grenade among a crowd of men. Then he saw the face of Anderson, a ponderous white face with eyebrows that met across his nose and a bluish, shaved chin.
“Where does he stay at, Andy? I'm going to git him.”
Andrews guessed what he meant.
“Sit down and have a drink, Chris,” he said, “Remember you're going to sleep with the Queen of Sheba tonight.”
“Not if I can't git them goddam....” his voice trailed off into an inaudible muttering of oaths.
“O the oak and the ash and the weeping willow tree,
O green grows the grass in God's countree!”
somebody sang again.