Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos (best e book reader android .txt) đ
- Author: John Dos Passos
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âIâll be goddamed if there ainât somethinâ doinâ!â
âA hell of a lot doinâ,â said the corporal, shaking his head.
âSeen that guy Daniels whoâs been to the front?â
âNo.â
âWell, he says hellâs broke loose. Hellâs broke loose!â
âWhatâs happened?⊠Be gorry, we may see some active service,â said Meadville, grinning. âBy God, Iâd give the best colt on my ranch to see some action.â
âGot a ranch?â asked the corporal.
The motor trucks kept on grinding past monotonously; their drivers were so splashed with mud it was hard to see what uniform they wore.
âWhat dâye think?â asked Meadville. âThink I keep store?â
Fuselli walked past them towards the town.
âSay, Fuselli,â shouted Meadville. âCorporal says hellâs broke loose out there. We may smell gunpowder yet.â
Fuselli stopped and joined them.
âI guess poor old Bill Greyâs smelt plenty of gunpowder by this time,â he said.
âI wish I had gone with him,â said Meadville. âIâll try that little trick myself now the good weatherâs come on if we donât get a move on soon.â
âToo damn risky!â
âListen to the kid. Itâll be too damn risky in the trenchesâŠ. Or do you think youâre goinâ to get a cushy job in camp here?â
âHell, no! I want to go to the front. I donât want to stay in this hole.â
âWell?â
âBut ainât no good throwinâ yerself in where it donât do no goodâŠ. A guy wants to get on in this army if he can.â
âWhatâs the good oâ gettinâ on?â said the corporal. âWonât get home a bit sooner.â
âHell! but youâre a non-com.â
Another train of motor trucks went by, drowning their Talk.
Fuselli was packing medical supplies in a box in a great brownish warehouse full of packing cases where a little sun filtered in through the dusty air at the corrugated sliding tin doors. As he worked, he listened to Daniels talking to Meadville who worked beside him.
âAnâ the gas is the goddamndest stuff I ever heard of,â he was saying. âIâve seen fellers with their arms swelled up to twice the size like blisters from it. Mustard gas, they call it.â
âWhat did you get to go to the hospital?â said Meadville.
âOnly pneumonia,â said Daniels, âbut I had a buddy who was split right in half by a piece of a shell. He was standinâ as near me as you are anâ was whistlinâ âTipperaryâ under his breath when all at once there was a big spurt oâ blood anâ there he was with his chest split in half anâ his head hanginâ a thread like.â
Meadville moved his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other and spat on to the sawdust of the floor. The men within earshot stopped working and looked admiringly at Daniels.
âWell; what dâye reckonâs goinâ on at the front now?â said Meadville.
âDamned of I know. The goddam hospital at Orleans was so full up there was guys in stretchers waiting all day on the pavement outside. I know thatâŠ. Fellers there said hellâd broke loose for fair. Looks to me like the Fritzies was advancinâ.â
Meadville looked at him incredulously.
âThose skunks?â said Fuselli. âWhy they canât advance. Theyâre starvinâ to death.â
âThe hell they are,â said Daniels. âI guess you believe everything you see in the papers.â
Eyes looked at Daniels indignantly. They all went on working in silence.
Suddenly the lieutenant, looking strangely flustered, strode into the warehouse, leaving the tin door open behind him.
âCan anyone tell me where Sergeant Osler is?â
âHe was here a few minutes ago,â spoke up Fuselli.
âWell, where is he now?â snapped the lieutenant angrily.
âI donât know, sir,â mumbled Fuselli, flushing.
âGo and see if you can find him.â
Fuselli went off to the other end of the warehouse. Outside the door he stopped and bit off a cigarette in a leisurely fashion. His blood boiled sullenly. How the hell should he know where the top sergeant was? They didnât expect him to be a mind-reader, did they? And all the flood of bitterness that had been collecting in his spirit seethed to the surface. They had not treated him right, He felt full of hopeless anger against this vast treadmill to which he was bound. The endless succession of the days, all alike, all subject to orders, to the interminable monotony of drills and line-ups, passed before his mind. He felt he couldnât go on, yet he knew that he must and would go on, that there was no stopping, that his feet would go on beating in time to the steps of the treadmill.
He caught sight of the sergeant coming towards the warehouse, across the new green grass, scarred by the marks of truck wheels.
âSarge,â he called. Then he went up to him mysteriously. âThe loot wants to see you at once in Warehouse B.â
He slouched back to his work, arriving just in time to hear the lieutenant say in a severe voice to the sergeant:
âSergeant, do you know how to draw up court-martial papers?â
âYes, sir,â said the sergeant, a look of surprise on his face. He followed the precise steps of the lieutenant out of the door.
Fuselli had a moment of panic terror, during which he went on working methodically, although his hands trembled. He was searching his memory for some infringement of a regulation that might be charged against him. The terror passed as fast as it had come. Of course he had no reason to fear. He laughed softly to himself. What a fool heâd been to get scared like that, and a summary court-martial couldnât do much to you anyway. He went on working as fast and as carefully as he could, through the long monotonous afternoon.
That night nearly the whole company gathered in a group at the end of the barracks. Both sergeants were away. The corporal said he knew nothing, and got sulkily into bed, where he lay, rolled in his blankets, shaken by fit after fit of coughing.
At last someone said:
âI bet that kike Eisensteinâs turned out to be a spy.â
âI bet he has too.â
âHeâs foreign born, ainât he? Born in Poland or some goddam place.â
âHe always did talk queer.â
âI always thought,â said Fuselli, âheâd get into trouble talking the way he did.â
âHowâd he talk?â asked Daniels.
âOh, he said that war was wrong and all that goddamed pro-German stuff.â
âDâye know what they did out at the front?â said Daniels. âIn the second division they made two fellers dig their own graves and then shot âem for sayinâ the war was wrong.â
âHell, they did?â
âYouâre goddam right, they did. I tell you, fellers, it donât do to monkey with the buzz-saw in this army.â
âFor Godâs sake shut up. Taps has blown. Meadville, turn the lights out!â said the corporal angrily. The barracks was dark, full of a sound of men undressing in their bunks, and of whispered talk.
The company was lined up for morning mess. The sun that had just risen was shining in rosily through the soft clouds of the sky. The sparrows kept up a great clattering in the avenue of plane trees. Their riotous chirping could be heard above the sound of motors starting that came from a shed opposite the mess shack.
The sergeant appeared suddenly; walking past with his shoulders stiff, so that everyone knew at once that something important was going on.
âAttention, men, a minute,â he said.
Mess kits clattered as the men turned round.
âAfter mess I want you to go immediately to barracks and roll your packs. After that every man must stand by his pack until orders come.â The company cheered and mess kits clattered together like cymbals.
âAs you were,â shouted the top sergeant jovially.
Gluey oatmeal and greasy bacon were hurriedly bolted down, and every man in the company, his heart pounding, ran to the barracks to do up his pack, feeling proud under the envious eyes of the company at the other end of the shack that had received no orders.
When the packs were done up, they sat on the empty hunks and drummed their feet against the wooden partitions waiting.
âI donât suppose weâll leave here till hell freezes over,â said Meadville, who was doing up the last strap on his pack.
âItâs always like thisâŠ. You break your neck to obey orders anââŠâ
âOutside!â shouted the sergeant, poking his head in the door.
âFall in! Attenshun!â
The lieutenant in his trench coat and in a new pair of roll puttees stood facing the company, looking solemn.
âMen,â he said, biting off his words as a man bites through a piece of hard stick candy; âone of your number is up for court-martial for possibly disloyal statements found in a letter addressed to friends at home. I have been extremely grieved to find anything of this sort in any company of mine; I donât believe there is another man in the companyâŠlow enough to hold⊠entertain such ideasâŠ.â
Every man in the company stuck out his chest, vowing inwardly to entertain no ideas at all rather than run the risk of calling forth such disapproval from the lieutenant. The lieutenant paused:
âAll I can say is if there is any such man in the company, he had better keep his mouth shut and be pretty damn careful what he writes homeâŠ. Dismissed!â
He shouted the order grimly, as if it were the order for the execution of the offender.
âThat goddam skunk Eisenstein,â said someone.
The lieutenant heard it as he walked away. âOh, sergeant,â he said familiarly; âI think the others have got the right stuff in them.â
The company went into the barracks and waited.
The sergeant-majorâs office was full of a clicking of typewriters, and was overheated by a black stove that stood in the middle of the floor, letting out occasional little puffs of smoke from a crack in the stove pipe. The sergeant-major was a small man with a fresh boyish face and a drawling voice who lolled behind a large typewriter reading a magazine that lay on his lap.
Fuselli slipped in behind the typewriter and stood with his cap in his hand beside the sergeant-majorâs chair.
âWell what do you want?â asked the sergeant-major gruffly.
âA feller told me, Sergeant-Major, that you was look-inâ for a man with optical experience;â Fuselliâs voice was velvety.
âWell?â
âI worked three years in an optical-goods store at home in Frisco.â
âWhatâs your name, rank, company?â
âDaniel Fuselli, Private 1st-class, Company C, medical supply warehouse.â
âAll right, Iâll attend to it.â
âBut, sergeant.â
âAll right; out with what youâve got to say, quick.â The sergeant-major fingered the leaves of his magazine impatiently.
âMy companyâs all packed up to go. The transferâll have to be today, sergeant.â
âWhy the hell didnât you come in earlier?⊠Stevens, make out a transfer to headquarters company and get the major to sign it when he goes throughâŠ. Thatâs the way it always is,â he cried, leaning back tragically in his swivel chair. âEverybody always puts everything off on me at the last minute.â
âThank you, sir,â said Fuselli, smiling. The sergeant-major ran his hand through his hair and took up his magazine again peevishly.
Fuselli hurried back to barracks where he found the company still waiting. Several men were crouched in a circle playing craps. The rest lounged in their bare bunks or fiddled with their packs. Outside it had begun to rain softly, and a smell of wet sprouting earth came in through the open door. Fuselli sat on the floor beside his bunk throwing his knife down so that it stuck in the boards between his knees.
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