The sergeant strolled up with a mysterious smile on his face.
“Put away your overcoats and get out your mess kits.”
Mess kits clattered and gleamed in the slanting rays of the sun. They marched to the mess hall and back again, lined up again with packs and waited some more.
Everybody began to get tired and peevish. Fuselli wondered where his old friends of the other company were. They were good kids too, Chris and that educated fellow, Andrews. Tough luck they couldn't have come along.
The sun rose higher. Men sneaked into the barracks one by one and lay down on the bare cots.
“What you want to bet we won't leave this camp for a week yet?” asked someone.
At noon they lined up for mess again, ate dismally and hurriedly. As Fuselli was leaving the mess hall tapping a tattoo on his kit with two dirty finger nails, the corporal spoke to him in a low voice.
“Be sure to wash yer kit, buddy. We may have pack inspection.”
The corporal was a slim yellow-faced man with a wrinkled skin, though he was still young, and an arrow-shaped mouth that opened and shut like the paper mouths children make.
“All right, corporal,” Fuselli answered cheerfully. He wanted to make a good impression. “Fellers'll be sayin' 'All right, corporal,' to me soon,” he thought. An idea that he repelled came into his mind. The corporal didn't look strong. He wouldn't last long overseas. And he pictured Mabe writing Corporal Dan Fuselli, O.A.R.D.5.