It was now such a time, and Sergeant Harriman was sitting cross-legged in the ravine, assaulting with the point of his bayonet a can of Argentina beef. Events of late had left him shaken. He had entered the trenches with a handicap; he believed that he was a crusader reincarnate, engaged in the holy service of saving religion, morality, purity, and civilization from the barbaric hand of that nation whose people he referred to as Huns. He had enlisted because he was of draft age and would be unqualified to dodge the call of Congress, requesting him to join the selected army of the United States of America. Had he possessed a widowed mother, or a wife and child, he would as gladly have fought the Hun from an office desk in Kenosha.
He had pierced the cover of the foul beef when a messenger from battalion headquarters parted the trees near Harriman and dropped in the ravine. Seeing Harriman, he spoke:
“Is this the Third Platoon?”
“It is, you know.” Harriman had picked up the postscript to his sentence from a man of many enlistments and whom he tried in many ways to emulate.
“You one of the non-coms?”
“Yes,” Harriman answered pleasantly.
“Well.” The messenger reached in the leather saddle-bag suspended from his shoulders. “Got some mail for the Third Platoon. You take it?”
“Bet I will.” Harriman fairly grabbed at the package of letters, so eager he was to see if it contained one for him. Yes, there it was. The one he had expected, waited for these many days.
“Gillespie!” he called. “Gillespie, do you want to give out the mail?”