The “wet” canteen was full of smoke and a cosy steam of beer. It was crowded with red-faced men, with shiny brass buttons on their khaki uniforms, among whom was a good sprinkling of lanky Americans.
“Tommies,” said Fuselli to himself.
After standing in line a while, Fuselli's cup was handed back to him across the counter, foaming with beer.
“Hello, Fuselli,” Meadville clapped him on the shoulder. “You found the liquor pretty damn quick, looks like to me.”
Fuselli laughed.
“May I sit with you fellers?”
“Sure, come along,” said Fuselli proudly, “these guys have been to the front.”
“You have?” asked Meadville. “The Huns are pretty good scrappers, they say. Tell me, do you use your rifle much, or is it mostly big gun work?”
“Naw; after all the months I spent learnin' how to drill with my goddam rifle, I'll be a sucker if I've used it once. I'm in the grenade squad.”
Someone at the end of the room had started singing: