There was a definite air of strain within the tank that was headquarters. It was a sort of tensity that seemed to emanate from the general himself.
Where Coffee and Wallis and the prisoner squatted on the ground, however, there was no sign of strain at all. There was a steady gabble of voices.
"What kinda rations they give you?" asked Coffee interestedly.
The enemy prisoner listed them, with profane side-comments.
"Hell," said Wallis gloomily. "Y'ought to see what we get! Las' week they fed us worse'n dogs. An' th' canteen stuff—"
"Your tank men, they get treated fancy?" asked the prisoner.
Coffee made a reply consisting almost exclusively of high powered expletives.
"—and the infantry gets it in the neck every time," he finished savagely. "We do the work—"
Guns began to boom, far away. Wallis cocked his ears.
"Tanks gettin' together," he judged, gloomily. "If they'd all blow each other to hell an' let us infantry fight this battle—"