“This goddam armistice sure does take the ambition out of a feller,” he said.
“Hell of a note,” said the red-haired sergeant. “D'you know that they had my name in for an O.T.C.? Hell of a note goin' home without a Sam Browne.”
The other man came back and sank down into his chair in front of the typewriter again. The slow, jerky clicking recommenced.
Andrews made a scraping noise with his foot on the ground.
“Well, what about that travel order?” said the red-haired sergeant.
“Loot's out,” said the other man, still typewriting.
“Well, didn't he leave it on his desk?” shouted the red-haired sergeant angrily.
“Couldn't find it.”
“I suppose I've got to go look for it.... God!” The red-haired sergeant stamped out of the room. A moment later he came back with a bunch of papers in his hand.
“Your name Jones?” he snapped to Andrews.