Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos Page B

that,” said the “Y” man severely. “You’re lucky to get it at all.”
    A cold chill gripped Fuselli’s spine as he went back to the stove to drink the chocolate. Of course he mustn’t crab. He was in the war now. If the sergeant had heard him crabbing, it might have spoiled his chances for a corporalship. He must be careful. If he just watched out and kept on his toes, he’d be sure to get it.
    “And why ain’t there no more chocolate, I want to know?” the nervous voice of the man who had stood in line behind Fuselli rose to a sudden shriek. Everybody looked round. The “Y” man was moving his head from side to side in a flustered way, saying in a shrill little voice:
    “I’ve told you there’s no more. Go away!”
    “You ain’t got no right to tell me to go away. You got to get me some chocolate. You ain’t never been at the front, you goddam slacker.” The man was yelling at the top of his lungs. He had hold of the counter with two hands and swayed from side to side. His friend was trying to pull him away.
    “Look here, none of that, I’ll report you,” said the “Y” man. “Is there a non-commissioned officer in the hut?”
    “Go ahead, you can’t do nothin’. I can’t never have nothing done worse than what’s been done to me already.” The man’s voice had reached a sing-song fury.
    “Is there a non-commissioned officer in the room?” The “Y” man kept looking from side to side. His little eyes were hard and spiteful and his lips were drawn up in a thin straight line.
    “Keep quiet, I’ll get him away,” said the other man in a low voice. “Can’t you see he’s not … ?”
    A strange terror took hold of Fuselli. He hadn’t expected things to be like that. When he had sat in the grandstand in the training camp and watched the jolly soldiers in khaki marching into towns, pursuing terrified Huns across potato fields, saving Belgian milk-maids against picturesque backgrounds.
    “Does many of ’em come back that way?” he asked a man beside him.
    “Some do. It’s this convalescent camp.”
    The man and his friend stood side by side near the stove talking in low voices.
    “Pull yourself together, kid,” the friend was saying.
    “All right, Tub; I’m all right now, Tub. That slacker got my goat, that was all.”
    Fuselli was looking at him curiously. He had a yellow parchment face and a high, gaunt forehead going up to sparse, curly brown hair. His eyes had a glassy look about them when they met Fuselli’s. He smiled amiably.
    “Oh, there’s the kid who’s seen Fritzie’s helmets in the movies. … Come on, buddy, come and have a beer at the English canteen.”
    “Can you get beer?”
    “Sure, over in the English camp.”
    They went out into the slanting rain. It was nearly dark, but the sky had a purplish-red color that was reflected a little on the slanting sides of tents and on the roofs of the rows of sheds that disappeared into the rainy mist in every direction. A few lights gleamed, a very bright polished yellow. They followed a board-walk that splashed mud up from the puddles under the tramp of their heavy boots.
    At one place they flattened themselves against the wet flap of a tent and saluted as an officer passed waving a little cane jauntily.
    “How long does a fellow usually stay in these rest camps?” asked Fuselli.
    “Depends on what’s goin’ on out there,” said Tub, pointing carelessly to the sky beyond the peaks of the tents.
    “You’ll leave here soon enough. Don’t you worry, buddy,” said the man with the nervous voice. “What you in?”
    “Medical Replacement Unit.”
    “A medic, are you? Those boys didn’t last long at the Château, did they, Tub?”
    “No, they didn’t.”
    Something inside Fuselli was protesting; “I’ll last out though. I’ll last out though.”
    “Do you remember the fellers went out to get poor ole Corporal Jones, Tub? I’ll be goddamned if anybody ever found a button of their pants.” He laughed