“Pipe down, you men back there. Who gave you permission to talk?” Sergeant Harriman called.
“Who the hell gave you permission to give us permission to talk?” some one indistinctly asked.
The platoon plodded along, their thoughts too taken up with the matter at hand—arriving at their quarters, being fed, and going to sleep—to give further thought to the eventuality of their being killed.
When they swung into their quarters, the fumes of the concoction which they had cheerfully and not inaccurately entitled “slum” were apparent to them. It assaulted their nostrils, but it was acceptable to empty stomachs.
They sat around; some were cross-legged on the ground, others sat upon manure piles, with their mess-gears half filled with slum by their sides.
Hicks and Pugh were seated together.
“What was that,” Hicks asked, “you were saying about going to the front? Was that just general orders from the head, or was it straight?”
“Ah jist told you what I heard, Hicksy. Some old guy told Major Adams that we’d be gittin’ out of here damn quick. That’s all I know. But say, it wouldn’t surprise me none if we went any time. Even to-night.”
“Oh, hell, no. Not to-night. I’m too damned tired to move. I’d go to the sick bay if we shoved off to-night.” Hicks was despondent.