After a while Fuselli said in a very low voice, so that no one but his friend should hear:
“Say, Bill, ain't it different from what we thought it was going to be?”
“Yare.”
“I mean fellers don't seem to think about beatin' the Huns at all, they're so busy crabbin' on everything.”
“It's the guys higher up that does the thinkin',” said Grey grandiloquently.
“Hell, but I thought it'd be excitin' like in the movies.”
“I guess that was a lot o' talk.”
“Maybe.”
Fuselli went to sleep on the hard floor, feeling the comfortable warmth of Grey's body along the side of him, hearing the endless, monotonous patter of the rain on the drenched canvas above his head. He tried to stay awake a minute to remember what Mabe looked like, but sleep closed down on him suddenly.
The bugle wrenched them out of their blankets before it was light. It was not raining. The air was raw and full of white mist that was cold as snow against their faces still warm from sleep. The corporal called the roll, lighting matches to read the list. When he dismissed the formation the sergeant's voice was heard from the tent, where he still lay rolled in his blankets.