Prostrate bodies in olive drab hid the patch of tender green grass by the roadside. The company was resting. Chrisfield sat on a stump morosely whittling at a stick with a pocket knife. Judkins was stretched out beside him.
“What the hell do they make us do this damn hikin' for, Corp?”
“Guess they're askeered we'll forgit how to walk.”
“Well, ain't it better than loafin' around yer billets all day, thinkin' an' cursin' an' wishin' ye was home?” spoke up the man who sat the other side, pounding down the tobacco in his pipe with a thick forefinger.
“It makes me sick, trampin' round this way in ranks all day with the goddam frawgs starin' at us an'...”
“They're laughin' at us, I bet,” broke in another voice.
“We'll be movin' soon to the Army o' Occupation,” said Chrisfield cheerfully. “In Germany it'll be a reglar picnic.”
“An' d'you know what that means?” burst out Judkins, sitting bolt upright. “D'you know how long the troops is goin' to stay in Germany? Fifteen years.”
“Gawd, they couldn't keep us there that long, man.”
“They can do anythin' they goddam please with us. We're the guys as is gettin' the raw end of this deal. It ain't the same with an' edicated guy like Andrews or Sergeant Coffin or them. They can suck around after 'Y' men, an' officers an' get on the inside track, an' all we can do is stand up an' salute an' say 'Yes, lootenant' an' 'No, lootenant' an' let 'em ride us all they goddam please. Ain't that gospel truth, corporal?”