"Shall we get on with it?"
"Of course, man. This is what I have been waiting for!" His words were sharp and impatient.
"Hey, Art! Got a butt?"
"Yeah, sure." Art Johnson scrabbled around inside his jacket and came out with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He passed them over.
"Thanks, buddy. God, but it's cold here!" He stripped off one glove and warmed the palm of his hand over the glowing coal of the cigarette. "Now I know what they mean when they call a place Godforsaken."
"Ease off there, you two!" Sergeant Stebbins glowered their way. "You want every chink in Korea to hear you?"
"Sorry, Sarge," muttered the cigarette-bummer. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Hey, Artie! I hear some of the guys in Fox company are making book on how many of us live through the day."
"Yeah?" Johnson shook his head. "Some characters'll bet on their own mother's funeral."
"Or their own." The boy giggled. "Wouldn't it be funny if the winners couldn't collect because they were all dead?"