When he turned he saw that a short man with curly hair, whose face, though familiar, he could not place, had left the group at the door and was coming towards him. “Hello, Andrews.... Your name's Andrews, ain't it?”
“Yes.” Andrews shook his hand, trying to remember.
“I'm Fuselli.... Remember? Last time I saw you you was goin' up to the lines on a train with Chrisfield.... Chris we used to call him.... At Cosne, don't you remember?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, what's happened to Chris?”
“He's a corporal now,” said Andrews.
“Gee he is.... I'll be goddamned.... They was goin' to make me a corporal once.”
Fuselli wore stained olive-drab breeches and badly rolled puttees; his shirt was open at the neck. From his blue denim jacket came a smell of stale grease that Andrews recognised; the smell of army kitchens. He had a momentary recollection of standing in line cold dark mornings and of the sound the food made slopping into mess kits.
“Why didn't they make you a corporal, Fuselli?” Andrcws said, after a pause, in a constrained voice.
“Hell, I got in wrong, I suppose.”