They were leaning against the dusty house wall. Andrews looked at his feet. The mud of the pavement, splashing up on the wall, made an even dado along the bottom, on which Andrews scraped the toe of his shoe up and down.
“Well, how's everything?” Andrews asked looking up suddenly.
“I've been in a labor battalion. That's how everything is.”
“God, that's tough luck!”
Andrews wanted to go on. He had a sudden fear that he would be late. But he did not know how to break away.
“I got sick,” said Fuselli grinning. “I guess I am yet, G. O. 42. It's a hell of a note the way they treat a feller... like he was lower than the dirt.”
“Were you at Cosne all the time? That's damned rough luck, Fuselli.”
“Cosne sure is a hell of a hole.... I guess you saw a lot of fighting. God! you must have been glad not to be in the goddam medics.”
“I don't know that I'm glad I saw fighting.... Oh, yes, I suppose I am.”
“You see, I had it a hell of a time before they found out. Courtmartial was damn stiff... after the armistice too.... Oh, God! why can't they let a feller go home?”