The boy leaned over to Andrews and whispered in his car: “Deserter?”
“No.... I had a day off and wanted to see the country.”
“I just thought, if you were a deserter, I might be able to help you. Must be silly to be a soldier. Dirty life.... But you like the country. So do I. You can't call this country. I'm not from this part; I'm from Brittany. There we have real country. It's stifling near Paris here, so many people, so many houses.”
“It seems mighty fine to me.”
“That's because you're a soldier, better than barracks, hein? Dirty life that. I'll never be a soldier. I'm going into the navy. Merchant marine, and then if I have to do service I'll do it on the sea.”
“I suppose it is pleasanter.”
“There's more freedom. And the sea.... We Bretons, you know, we all die of the sea or of liquor.”
They laughed.
“Have you been long in this part of the country?” asked Andrews.
“Six months. It's very dull, this farming work. I'm head of a gang in a fruit orchard, but not for long. I have a brother shipped on a sailing vessel. When he comes back to Bordeaux, I'll ship on the same boat.”