Puffing away at his cigarette, one of the men began: “If I ever get out of this man’s war they’ll have to hunt me with cannons to get me in another.”
“You tell ’em. They sure will. When I git out of this outfit I’m goin’ up into Montana and buy a ranch, and I’m goin’ to dig trenches and put up barbed wire and git me some guns and spit at the whole bunch of ’em.”
“Why the hell do that? You can do all of that stuff here.”
“Yeh, but I wouldn’t have no God-damned mail-order shavetails tellin’ me what to do and what not to do. That’s what I hate.”
“Well, there won’t be any more wars after this one, anyway. This is the war to end war. After we lick these Boches everything will be all right.”
Hicks rose, faintly nauseated. He flung his cigarette away, threw his equipment over his shoulders, and walked on.
When he arrived at the place where the platoon was to rest he felt quite giddy. He slipped his pack from his shoulders and leaned it against the side of the long, low, slatted bunk house. Of course there was a place there for him to sleep. But, somehow, he did not want to sleep. His stomach seemed about to tie itself into a knot, and he felt that this could be prevented by something hot to drink. He wondered where the galley was; the cooks were sure to have some hot coffee. A man passed, and Hicks asked him whether the cook wagons had yet arrived.
“No, they haven’t. They never get here, you know. But there’s an old goof in that building over there that’s got some chocolate. Why don’t you get some?”
Hicks started away in the direction the man had pointed. Sure enough, the place was crowded with soldiers, and many of them were drinking from thick mugs. Hicks edged toward the counter and asked for a drink. The Y. M. C. A. man filled a mug with hot, thin chocolate. It was the most pleasant sight Hicks had seen in months. He reached for it and was about to drink when something in the man’s eyes made him hesitate.
“Well, we don’t give this chocolate away!” said the man, turning up a corner of his long, sallow face.