The man shambled in front of him; he was trembling so hard he nearly fell with each step.
Chrisfield kicked him.
The man shambled on without turning round. Chrisfield kicked him again, feeling the point of the man's spine and the soft flesh of his rump against his toes with each kick, laughing so hard all the while that he could hardly see where he was going.
“Halt!” came a voice.
“Ah've got a prisoner,” shouted Chrisfield still laughing.
“He ain't much of a prisoner,” said the man, pointing his bayonet at the German. “He's gone crazy, I guess. I'll take keer o' him... ain't no use sendin' him back.”
“All right,” said Chrisfield still laughing. “Say, buddy, where can Ah' git something to eat? Ah ain't had nothin' fur a day an a half.”
“There's a reconnoitrin' squad up the line; they'll give you somethin'.... How's things goin' up that way?” The man pointed up the road.
“Gawd, Ah doan know. Ah ain't had nothin' to eat fur a day and a half.”
The warm smell of a stew rose to his nostrils from the mess-kit. Chrisfield stood, feeling warm and important, filling his mouth with soft greasy potatoes and gravy, while men about him asked him questions. Gradually he began to feel full and content, and a desire to sleep came over him. But he was given a gun, and had to start advancing again with the reconnoitering squad. The squad went cautiously up the same lane through the woods.