“Why don’t you get out your poncho?” he asked.
“I forgot to put it in my pack.”
“That’s the limit, a night like this. You’ve got a frightful cold, too.” Wheeler pulled off the poncho that he had just put on. “Get into this and keep yourself as dry as you can.”
“No, I wouldn’t think of taking your——”
“You’re under orders now, and you’ll take what your corporal tells you.” Wheeler thrust the rubber garment over his subordinate’s head. “There you are; I don’t want to feel responsible for your having pneumonia.”
Then, as Captain Hughes called, “Squad leaders, gather round!” Wheeler moved away to receive instructions.
Seating himself cross-legged, Kennedy arranged the poncho as well as he could over his rifle. The rain came down in sheets, poured from the brims of hats, formed puddles on the ground, oozed through trousers and boots and leggings. By the occasional lightning flashes Kennedy could see the group of corporals holding conference with the captain near by; he could see the huddled forms of the privates like himself, the ponchos shining on their shoulders, the pools glistening at their feet.
In a few moments the conference broke up; then Captain Hughes raised his voice sharply.
“Mr. Wheeler, where is your poncho?”
“I haven’t got it, sir.”