“I want to get to the front.... I don't want to stay here till I get in the jug for being spiffed or get a court-martial.... Say, Dan, will you come with me?”
“Hell, Bill, you ain't goin'. You're just kiddin', ain't yer? They'll send us there soon enough. I want to get to be a corporal,”—he puffed out his chest a little—“before I go to the front, so's to be able to show what I'm good for. See, Bill?”
A bugle blew.
“There's fatigue, an' I ain't done my bunk.”
“Me neither.... They won't do nothin', Dan.... Don't let them ride yer, Dan.”
They lined up in the dark road feeling the mud slopping under their feet. The ruts were full of black water, in which gleamed a reflection of distant electric lights.
“All you fellows work in Storehouse A today,” said the sergeant, who had been a preacher, in his sad, drawling voice. “Lieutenant says that's all got to be finished by noon. They're sending it to the front today.”
Somebody let his breath out in a whistle of surprise.
“Who did that?”
Nobody answered.