“Say, Dan,” said Bill Grey, strolling away from a group of men he had been talking to. “These guys say we are going to the Third Army.”
“Say, fellers,” shouted Fuselli. “They say we're going to the Third Army.”
“Where's that?”
“In the Oregon forest,” ventured somebody.
“That's at the front, ain't it?”
At that moment the lieutenant strode by. A long khaki muffler was thrown carelessly round his neck and hung down his back.
“Look here, men,” he said severely, “the orders are to stay in the cars.”
The men slunk back into the cars sullenly.
A hospital train passed, clanking slowly over the cross-tracks. Fuselli looked fixedly at the dark enigmatic windows, at the red crosses, at the orderlies in white who leaned out of the doors, waving their hands. Somebody noticed that there were scars on the new green paint of the last car.
“The Huns have been shooting at it.”