“You can’t be so damned finicky. This is war.”
“He’s right, Hicks.” Bullis nodded sagely. “If we didn’t get it the Squareheads would.”
The party, all but Ryan, tilted back in their chairs, their tunics unbuttoned and their belts unfastened. Their eyes having proved larger than their appetites, much of the food remained on the table untouched. But there was room in their bellies for wine, and bottle after bottle was opened and emptied.
“There,” said Bullis, pointing to an empty bottle, “is a good soldier. He has done his duty and he is willing to do it again.”
Foolishly, the men raised their hands to their forehead in a gesture of homage.
VII
They lurched out into the street. The day was hot and still, and the men, exhilarated by the wine and satiated with the food, were planning for other banquets as sumptuous. Around the corner of the crooked street marched an orderly, wearing his inevitable look of having the responsibility of the war on his shoulders.