“Hold me, Pugh, I’m faintin’ with joy. Coffee, hot! And milk and sugar in it.”
They sat around and munched their food and drank their coffee. Under the feeling of warmth in their stomachs many of the men relaxed and their thoughts became once again normal.
The platoon had grown used to the late afternoon bombardment that beat and slashed at them every day. The shells driving at them with a white fury were accepted as a part of the whole stunning, disagreeable duty of the front line. As their durance in the ravine lengthened they were able even to comment upon the fierceness or the comparative mildness of the attack.
In his burrow Sergeant Ryan, his blouse and undershirt lying by his side, was exploring with his right hand a place beneath his left shoulder-blade that had begun to pain. His fingers felt a swollen, hurting lump. As he pressed on it, a pain like being prodded in a nerve with a needle shot through him.
Lieutenant Bedford, from a burrow near by, leaned out.
“What’s the matter, Ryan? Looking for cooties?”
“No, there’s something the matter with my shoulder. It’s swelled.”
“Let’s see.... Hell, man, you’d better go back to the dressing station. You’ve been hit.”
“Take your knife and see if you can get it out.”