Pugh shrugged his shoulders and once more attacked his slum. A moment later the company commander walked toward the place where the men were eating. He was followed by the first sergeant. He approached Harriman.
“Sergeant,” he said, “have your platoon make up their packs and stand by. Let no one go to bed, and be ready to leave at any moment.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Harriman.
“By God, Pugh, you were right, you uncanny bitch. It’s to-night that we leave,” said Hicks.
Midnight. Long rubber ponchos were drawn over recumbent figures; heads were pillowed by packs; sleep remained impervious to Allied propaganda. There was a tearing noise as a rifle exploded.
The company commander came running out of the farmhouse, where he and the other officers lodged with the farmer and his family. “What the devil are you men trying to do?”
“Somebody’s shot himself, captain.”
The first sergeant followed, bringing with him an electric torch. He hurried to the place where a group of men had gathered. Pushing through, he directed the rays of the torch toward the body. It was Goldman. He had placed the butt of the rifle on the ground, and with the muzzle pressed against his throat, had forced the trigger with his toe. There he lay, with one shoe off and the blood streaming from a hole in his jaw.