"It's all right, sir," the sergeant said. He looked down again.
"We had a good day. Three hundred, the colonel said."
"That's good." The sergeant laughed sardonically. "Are we winning?"
"It's hard to say. We're not losing."
"Aren't we, sir?" The sergeant spoke bitterly. "Aren't they? Aren't we all?"
"Look, sergeant—" the lieutenant began. Then he shrugged. The sergeant was older than he was by seven or eight years. There was no need to give him an orientation lecture. He reached in his pocket and took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. He opened it. "Have one. A shipment just got in."
"Thanks." The sergeant took a cigarette. He stared at it and the fingers holding it trembled. "Look at it," he said hollowly. "Look at the freakin' thing!"
The lieutenant looked at it, then at the front of the pack. Ruby tips to match your lips, it said under the brand name.
"What are they doing to us?" the sergeant said. He crumpled the cigarette in his fist and threw it down and ground it under his boot. "Isn't it hard enough?"
"It must be a mistake," the lieutenant said. He sounded shaken, too. "Because of the shortage, maybe. Unless it's a fifth column trick. Like the rumor about them not going to wake up again."