“Who the hell wants to eat any of that damned stuff?”
“God, my hardtack laid in the trenches for six weeks, and even them damned rats wouldn’t eat it.”
The platoon had recovered its spirits, its “morale,” as the white-collared fighters for democracy often spoke of it.
As night was coming on, a noise was heard in the grass between the men and the ruined village. It coughed tentatively, then decisively.
“Who’s back there?”
“A runner from battalion headquarters,” the voice answered cautiously. “Don’t shoot.”
“Oh, come ahead.”
“What the hell are you afraid of?”
“We’re not as fierce as we look.”