“He's got a flower behind his ear, like a cigarette,” said Judkins, with a disgusted snort.
“Well, I guess we'd better go,” said Small. “We got to be in quarters at six.”
They were silent a moment. In the distance the guns kept up a continual tomtom sound.
“Guess we'll be in that soon,” said Small.
Chrisfield felt a chill go down his spine. He moistened his lips with his tongue.
“Guess it's hell out there,” said Judkins. “War ain't no picnic.”
“Ah doan give a hoot in hell,” said Chrisfield.
The men were lined up in the village street with their packs on, waiting for the order to move. Thin wreaths of white mist still lingered in the trees and over the little garden plots. The sun had not yet risen, but ranks of clouds in the pale blue sky overhead were brilliant with crimson and gold. The men stood in an irregular line, bent over a little by the weight of their equipment, moving back and forth, stamping their feet and beating their arms together, their noses and ears red from the chill of the morning. The haze of their breath rose above their heads.
Down the misty road a drab-colored limousine appeared, running slowly. It stopped in front of the line of men. The lieutenant came hurriedly out of the house opposite, drawing on a pair of gloves. The men standing in line looked curiously at the limousine. They could see that two of the tires were flat and that the glass was broken. There were scratches on the drab paint and in the door three long jagged holes that obliterated the number. A little murmur went down the line of men. The door opened with difficulty, and a major in a light buff-colored coat stumbled out. One arm, wrapped in bloody bandages, was held in a sling made of a handkerchief. His face was white and drawn into a stiff mask with pain. The lieutenant saluted.
“For God's sake where's a repair station?” he asked in a loud shaky voice.