“A stuff that makes you go to sleep and have wonderful dreams. In China....”
“Dreams,” interrupted Chrisfield. “Ah had one of them last night. Dreamed Ah saw a feller that had shot hisself that I saw one time reconnoitrin' out in the Bringy Wood.”
“What was that?”
“Nawthin', juss a Fritzie had shot hisself.”
“Better than opium,” said Andrews, his voice trembling with sudden excitement.
“Ah dreamed the flies buzzin' round him was aeroplanes.... Remember the last rest village?”
“And the major who wouldn't close the window? You bet I do!”
They lay down on the grassy bank that sloped from the road to the pond. The road was hidden from them by the tall reeds through which the wind lisped softly. Overhead huge white cumulus clouds, piled tier on tier like fantastic galleons in full sail, floated, changing slowly in a greenish sky. The reflection of clouds in the silvery glisten of the pond's surface was broken by clumps of grasses and bits of floating weeds. They lay on their backs for some time before they started taking their clothes off, looking up at the sky, that seemed vast and free, like the ocean, vaster and freer than the ocean.
“Sarge says a delousin' machine's comin' through this way soon.”
“We need it, Chris.”