“Ah didn't git in this here army to be ordered around by a goddam wop,” he muttered.
“Doesn't matter much who you're ordered around by, you're ordered around just the same,” said Andrews. “Where d'ye come from, buddy?”
“Oh, I come from New York. My folks are from Virginia,” said Andrews.
“Indiana's ma state. The tornado country.... Git to work; here's that bastard wop comin' around the buildin'.”
“Don't pick 'em up that-a-way; sweep 'em up,” shouted the corporal.
Andrews and the Indiana boy went round with a broom and a shovel collecting chewed-out quids of tobacco and cigar butts and stained bits of paper.
“What's your name? Mahn's Chrisfield. Folks all call me Chris.”
“Mine's Andrews, John Andrews.”
“Ma dad uster have a hired man named Andy. Took sick an' died last summer. How long d'ye reckon it'll be before us-guys git overseas?”
“God, I don't know.”