“Tomorrow I'm going to Paris,” cried Andrews boisterously. “It's the end of soldiering for me.”
“Ah bet it'll be some sport in Germany, Andy.... Sarge says we'll be goin' up to Coab... what's its name?”
“Coblenz.”
Chrisfield poured a glass of wine out and drank it off, smacking his lips after it and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“D'ye remember, Andy, we was both of us brushin' cigarette butts at that bloody trainin' camp when we first met up with each other?”
“Considerable water has run under the bridge since then.”
“Ah reckon we won't meet up again, mos' likely.”
“Hell, why not?”
They were silent again, staring at the fading embers of the fire. In the dim edge of the candlelight the woman stood with her hands on her hips, looking at them fixedly.
“Reckon a feller wouldn't know what to do with himself if he did get out of the army... now, would he, Andy?”