“Sure, over in the English camp.” They went out into the slanting rain. It was nearly dark, but the sky had a purplish-red color that was reflected a little on the slanting sides of tents and on the roofs of the rows of sheds that disappeared into the rainy mist in every direction. A few lights gleamed, a very bright polished yellow. They followed a board-walk that splashed mud up from the puddles under the tramp of their heavy boots.
At one place they flattened themselves against the wet flap of a tent and saluted as an officer passed waving a little cane jauntily.
“How long does a fellow usually stay in these rest camps?” asked Fuselli.
“Depends on what's goin' on out there,” said Tub, pointing carelessly to the sky beyond the peaks of the tents.
“You'll leave here soon enough. Don't you worry, buddy,” said the man with the nervous voice. “What you in?”
“Medical Replacement Unit.”
“A medic are you? Those boys didn't last long at the Chateau, did they, Tub?”
“No, they didn't.”
Something inside Fuselli was protesting; “I'll last out though. I'll last out though.”
“Do you remember the fellers went out to get poor ole Corporal Jones, Tub? I'll be goddamned if anybody ever found a button of their pants.” He laughed his creaky little laugh. “They got in the way of a torpedo.”