“Um hum, a bunch of us lives here.”
A wide bed without coverings, where a man in olive-drab slept rolled in a blanket, was the only furniture of the room.
“Three of us sleeps in that bed,” said Chrisfield.
“Who's that?” cried the man in the bed, sitting up suddenly.
“All right, Al, he's a buddy o' mine,” said Chrisfield. “He's taken off his uniform.”
“Jesus, you got guts,” said the man in the bed.
Andrews looked at him sharply. A piece of towelling, splotched here and there with dried blood, was wrapped round his head, and a hand, swathed in bandages, was drawn up to his body. The man's mouth took on a twisted expression of pain as he let his head gradually down to the bed again.
“Gosh, what did you do to yourself?” cried Andrews.
“I tried to hop a freight at Marseilles.”
“Needs practice to do that sort o' thing,” said Chrisfield, who sat on the bed, pulling his shoes off. “Ah'm go-in' to git back to bed, Andy. Ah'm juss dead tired. Ah chucked cabbages all night at the market. They give ye a job there without askin' no questions.”