“How was the chow?”
“Rotten. And you have to line up in the mud in your pajamas to get it if you’re a walking patient. They say the base hospitals are worse.”
“Yeh, but you don’t have no shavetail raggin’ you around all the time, do you?”
“The hell you don’t. Them damned orderlies who are supposed to do the work hand you a broom and tell you to clean up the deck, or wash up the toilets, or make up somebody’s bed.” Hicks got up and limped away. “Got to report to the company commander.”
“How come you’re limpin’, Hicksy?”
“Still got sores on my legs where that confounded gas burned.”
The new men vowed that they never would get shot.
After an hour’s close order drill the next day Hicks was noticed to be unable to keep in step. Three times Lieutenant Bedford bit his lip and refrained only by great repression from reprimanding him. When the platoon came to a halt, Lieutenant Bedford moved over to Hicks and quietly and venomously asked: “Hicks, what the hell’s the matter with you? Why the hell do you walk along like you had a brick in your pants?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it, Lieutenant Bedford. I still have sores on my legs.”