In a hundred thousand years.”
Pugh looked at him sourly. “You all wouldn’t be singin’ that if you’d been wi’ us las’ night. You musta been hidin’ in some dugout eatin’ up our rations.”
“Who?” The man broke off, indignant.
“Who? Who?” said Pugh. “Your feet don’t fit no limb.”
“Who do you mean?”—incensed.
“Oh, gwahn.”
With their canteen cups the men dipped eagerly into the thick, brown, greasy fluid.
“God, an’ it’s hot, too.”
But for the most part they were silent. One man tasted of the concoction in the other receptacle. He began to retch horribly.
Usually, the early afternoon was the period of the day’s recreation for the men in the ravine, an hour more favorable to their personal pursuits. Between the time when an attack might be expected and the diurnal four-o’clock German bombardment, the moment gave the platoon a chance once more to assume their normal existence. At such a time the guardians of the ravine would emerge from their burrows and, under the shade of an overhanging tree, try to recollect their thoughts.