They went out into the dark village street.
“To hell with women, Chris, this is the war!” cried Andrews in a loud drunken voice as they reeled arm in arm up the street.
“You bet it's the war.... Ah'm a-goin' to beat up....”
Chrisfield felt his friend's hand clapped over his mouth. He let himself go limply, feeling himself pushed to the side of the road.
Somewhere in the dark he heard an officer's voice say:
“Bring those men to me.”
“Yes, sir,” came another voice.
Slow heavy footsteps came up the road in their direction. Andrews kept pushing him back along the side of a house, until suddenly they both fell sprawling in a manure pit.
“Lie still for God's sake,” muttered Andrews, throwing an arm over Chrisfield's chest. A thick odor of dry manure filled their nostrils.
They heard the steps come nearer, wander about irresolutely and then go off in the direction from which they had come.