The lieutenant appeared suddenly in the area of light in front of the barracks. He was a pink-faced boy. His trench coat, a little too large, was very new and stuck out stiffly from his legs.
“Everything all right, sergeant? Everything all right?” he asked several times, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“All ready for entrainment, sir,” said the sergeant heartily.
“Very good, I'll let you know the order of march in a minute.”
Fuselli's ears pounded with strange excitement. These phrases, “entrainment,” “order of march,” had a businesslike sound. He suddenly started to wonder how it would feel to be under fire. Memories of movies flickered in his mind.
“Gawd, ain't I glad to git out o' this hell-hole,” he said to the man next him.
“The next one may be more of a hell-hole yet, buddy,” said the sergeant striding up and down with his important confident walk.
Everybody laughed.
“He's some sergeant, our sergeant is,” said the man next to Fuselli. “He's got brains in his head, that boy has.”
“All right, break ranks,” said the sergeant, “but if anybody moves away from this barracks, I'll put him in K. P. Till—till he'll be able to peel spuds in his sleep.”