Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos (best e book reader android .txt) đ
- Author: John Dos Passos
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At last the top sergeant came in, shaking the water off his slicker, a serious, important expression on his face.
âInspection of medical belts,â he shouted. âEverybody open up their belt and lay it on the foot of their bunk and stand at attention on the left side.â
The lieutenant and a major appeared suddenly at one end of the barracks and came through slowly, pulling the little packets out of the belts. The men looked at them out of the corners of their eyes. As they examined the belts, they chatted easily, as if they had been alone.
âYes,â said the major. âWeâre in for it this timeâŠ. That damned offensive.â
âWell, weâll be able to show âem what weâre good for,â said the lieutenant, laughing. âWe havenât had a chance yet.â
âHum! Better mark that belt, lieutenant, and have it changed. Been to the front yet?â
âNo, sir.â
âHum, wellâŠ. Youâll look at things differently when you have,â said the major.
The lieutenant frowned.
âWell, on the whole, lieutenant, your outfit is in very good shapeâŠ. At ease, men!â The lieutenant and the major stood at the door a moment raising the collars of their coats; then they dove out into the rain.
A few minutes later the sergeant came in.
âAll right, get your slickers on and line up.â
They stood lined up in the rain for a long while. It was a leaden afternoon. The even clouds had a faint coppery tinge. The rain beat in their faces, making them tingle. Fuselli was looking anxiously at the sergeant. At last the lieutenant appeared.
âAttention!â cried the sergeant.
The roll was called and a new man fell in at the end of the line, a tall man with large protruding eyes like a calfâs.
âPrivate 1st-class Daniel Fuselli, fall out and report to headquarters company!â
Fuselli saw a look of surprise come over menâs faces. He smiled wanly at Meadville.
âSergeant, take the men down to the station.â
âSquads, right,â cried the sergeant. âMarch!â
The company tramped off into the streaming rain.
Fuselli went back to the barracks, took off his pack and slicker and wiped the water off his face.
The rails gleamed gold in the early morning sunshine above the deep purple cinders of the track. Fuselliâs eyes followed the track until it curved into a cutting where the wet clay was a bright orange in the clear light. The station platform, where puddles from the nightâs rain glittered as the wind ruffled them, was empty. Fuselli started walking up and down with his hands in his pockets. He had been sent down to unload some supplies that were coming on that morningâs train. He felt free and successful since he joined the headquarters company! At last, he told himself, he had a job where he could show what he was good for. He walked up and down whistling shrilly.
A train pulled slowly into the station. The engine stopped to take water and the couplings clanked all down the line of cars. The platform was suddenly full of men in khaki, stamping their feet, running up and down shouting.
âWhere you guys goinâ?â asked Fuselli.
âWeâre bound for Palm Beach. Donât we look it?â someone snarled in reply.
But Fuselli had seen a familiar face. He was shaking hands with two browned men whose faces were grimy with days of travelling in freight cars.
âHullo, Chrisfield. Hullo, Andrews!â he cried. âWhen did you fellows get over here?â
âOh, âbout four months ago,â said Chrisfield, whose black eyes looked at Fuselli searchingly. âOh! Ah âmember you. Youâre Fuselli. We was at traininâ camp together. âMember him, Andy?â
âSure,â said Andrews. âHow are you makinâ out?â
âFine,â said Fuselli. âIâm in the optical department here.â
âWhere the hellâs that?â
âRight here.â Fuselli pointed vaguely behind the station.
âWeâve been training about four months near Bordeaux,â said Andrews; âand now weâre going to see what itâs like.â
The whistle blew and the engine started puffing hard. Clouds of white steam filled the station platform, where the soldiers scampered for their cars.
âGood luck!â said Fuselli; but Andrews and Chrisfield had already gone. He saw them again as the train pulled out, two brown and dirt-grimed faces among many other brown and dirt-grimed faces. The steam floated up tinged with yellow in the bright early morning air as the last car of the train disappeared round the curve into the cutting.
The dust rose thickly about the worn broom. As it was a dark morning, very little light filtered into the room full of great white packing cases, where Fuselli was sweeping. He stopped now and then and leaned on his broom. Far away he heard a sound of trains shunting and shouts and the sound of feet tramping in unison from the drill ground. The building where he was was silent. He went on sweeping, thinking of his company tramping off through the streaming rain, and of those fellows he had known in training Camp in America, Andrews and Chrisfield, jolting in box cars towards the front, where Danielâs buddy had had his chest split in half by a piece of shell. And heâd written home heâd been made a corporal. What was he going to do when letters came for him, addressed Corporal Dan Fuselli? Putting the broom away, he dusted the yellow chair and the table covered with order slips that stood in the middle of the piles of packing boxes. The door slammed somewhere below and there was a step on the stairs that led to the upper part of the warehouse. A little man with a monkey-like greyish-brown face and spectacles appeared and slipped out of his overcoat, like a very small bean popping out of a very large pod.
The sergeantâs stripes looked unusually wide and conspicuous on his thin arm.
He grunted at Fuselli, sat down at the desk, and began at once peering among the order slips.
âAnything in our mailbox this morning?â he asked Fuselli in a hoarse voice.
âItâs all there, sergeant,â said Fuselli.
The sergeant peered about the desk some more.
âYeâll have to wash that window today,â he said after a pause. âMajorâs likely to come round here any timeâŠ. Ought to have been done yesterday.â
âAll right,â said Fuselli dully.
He slouched over to the corner of the room, got the worn broom and began sweeping down the stairs. The dust rose about him, making him cough. He stopped and leaned on the broom. He thought of all the days that had gone by since heâd last seen those fellows, Andrews and Chrisfield, at training camp in America; and of all the days that would go by. He started sweeping again, sweeping the dust down from stair to stair.
Fuselli sat on the end of his bunk. He had just shaved. It was a Sunday morning and he looked forward to having the afternoon off. He rubbed his face on his towel and got to his feet. Outside, the rain fell in great silvery sheets, so that the noise on the tar-paper roof of the barracks was almost deafening.
Fuselli noticed, at the other end of the row of bunks, a group of men who all seemed to be looking at the same thing. Rolling down his sleeves, with his tunic hitched over one arm, he walked down to see what was the matter. Through the patter of the rain, he heard a thin voice say:
âIt ainât no use, sergeant, Iâm sick. I ainât aâ goinâ to get up.â
âThe kidâs crazy,â someone beside Fuselli said, turning away.
âYou get up this minute,â roared the sergeant. He was a big man with black hair who looked like a lumberman. He stood over the bunk. In the bunk at the end of a bundle of blankets was the chalk-white face of Stockton. The boyâs teeth were clenched, and his eyes were round and protruding, it seemed from terror.
âYou get out oâ bed this minute,â roared the sergeant again.
The boy; was silent; his white cheeks quivered.
âWhat the hellâs the matter with him?â
âWhy donât you yank him out yourself, Sarge?â
âYou get out of bed this minute,â shouted the sergeant again, paying no attention.
The men gathered about walked away. Fuselli watched fascinated from a little distance.
âAll right, then, Iâll get the lieutenant. This is a court-martial offence. Here, Morton and Morrison, youâre guards over this man.â
The boy lay still in his blankets. He closed his eyes. By the way the blanket rose and fell over his chest, they could see that he was breathing heavily.
âSay, Stockton, why donât you get up, you fool?ââ said Fuselli. âYou canât buck the whole army.â
The boy didnât answer.
Fuselli walked away.
âHeâs crazy,â he muttered.
The lieutenant was a stoutish red-faced man who came in puffing followed by the tall sergeant. He stopped and shook the water off his Campaign hat. The rain kept up its deafening patter on the roof.
âLook here, are you sick? If you are, report sick call at once,â said the lieutenant in an elaborately kind voice.
The boy looked at him dully and did not answer.
âYou should get up and stand at attention when an officer speaks to you.
âI ainât goinâ to get up,â came the thin voice.
The officerâs red face became crimson.
âSergeant, whatâs the matter with the man?â he asked in a furious tone.
âI canât do anything with him, lieutenant. I think heâs gone crazy.â
âRubbishâŠ. Mere insubordinationâŠ. Youâre under arrest, dâye hear?â he shouted towards the bed.
There was no answer. The rain pattered hard on the roof.
âHave him brought down to the guardhouse, by force if necessary,â snapped the lieutenant. He strode towards the door. âAnd sergeant, start drawing up court-martial papers at once.â The door slammed behind him.
âNow youâve got to get him up,â said the sergeant to the two guards.
Fuselli walked away.
âAinât some people damn fools?â he said to a man at the other end of the barracks. He stood looking out of the window at the bright sheets of the rain.
âWell, get him up,â shouted the sergeant.
The boy lay with his eyes closed, his chalk-white face half-hidden by the blankets; he was very still.
âWell, will you get up and go to the guardhouse, or have we to carry you there?â shouted the sergeant.
The guards laid hold of him gingerly and pulled him up to a sitting posture.
âAll right, yank him out of bed.â
The frail form in khaki shirt and whitish drawers was held up for a moment between the two men. Then it fell a limp heap on the floor.
âSay, Sarge, heâs fainted.â
âThe hell he hasâŠ. Say, Morrison, ask one of the orderlies to come up from the Infirmary.â
âHe ainât faintedâŠ. The kidâs dead,â said the other man.
âGive me a hand.â
The sergeant helped lift the body on the bed again. âWell, Iâll be goddamned,â said the sergeant.
The eyes had opened. They covered the head with a blanket.
The fields and the misty blue-green woods slipped by slowly as the box car rumbled and jolted over the rails, now stopping for hours on sidings amid meadows, where it was quiet and where above the babel of voices of the regiment you could hear the skylarks, now clattering fast over bridges and along the banks of jade-green rivers where the slim poplars were just coming into leaf and where now and then a fish jumped. The men crowded in the door, grimy and tired, leaning on each otherâs shoulders and watching the plowed lands slip by and the meadows where the golden-green grass was dappled with buttercups, and the villages
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