Chrisfield hung on his shoulder, walking unsteadily beside him. At the hole in the hedge Chrisfield stumbled and nearly pulled them both down. They laughed, and still laughing staggered into the dark kitchen, where they found the red-faced woman with her baby sitting beside the fire with no other light than the flicker of the rare flames that shot up from a little mass of wood embers. The baby started crying shrilly when the two soldiers stamped in. The woman got up and, talking automatically to the baby all the while, went off to get a light and wine.
Andrews looked at Chrisfield's face by the firelight. His cheeks had lost the faint childish roundness they had had when Andrews had first talked to him, sweeping up cigarette butts off the walk in front of the barracks at the training camp.
“Ah tell you, boy, you ought to come with us to Germany... nauthin' but whores in Paris.”
“The trouble is, Chris, that I don't want to live like a king, or a sergeant or a major-general.... I want to live like John Andrews.”
“What yer goin' to do in Paris, Andy?”
“Study music.”
“Ah guess some day Ah'll go into a movie show an' when they turn on the lights, who'll Ah see but ma ole frien' Andy raggin' the scales on the pyaner.”
“Something like that.... How d'you like being a corporal, Chris?”
“O, Ah doan know.” Chrisfield spat on the floor between his feet. “It's funny, ain't it? You an' me was right smart friends onct.... Guess it's bein' a non-com.”
Andrews did not answer.