"Sure," Dennison said.
"Fill'er up," Millard said, behind Dennison. "I could eat anything!"
The Corpsmen wore regulation uniforms or the coveralls of the mechanic; there were a number in fatigues; some men wore helmets; they were an unshaven lot. Their khaki did not count for much: they were all of a piece: their greasy, oily, gasoline messed clothes stuck to their greasy, oily bodies; they had not washed in days. No water, no inclination.
They appeared strangely alike in the firelight, each with a bush on his face, each with a crew cut or helmet, each with his mess kit or cup of coffee.
A shell thudded behind the great dune.
"Hell, I hope they don't lay a line on this fire," Millard said, moving a few yards away from the kitchen to allow others to queue up.
His pan filled, Dennison stepped out of line and pushed his way through the crewmen.
"Captain Meyers had guys pull some of the wood out of the blaze," a fat sergeant told Dennison.
"They're not near enough for a hit," Dennison belched cheerfully, spooning some hash.
"Christ, there's a village burning up over there, beyond that dune," somebody yelled. "What's a piddling campfire alongside a village! We'll be out of here in an hour. It'll be our turn to let them have it!"