3 books to know World War I. John Dos Passos

chairs on which soldiers sprawled in attitudes of utter boredom, and the counter where the “Y” man stood with a set smile doling out chocolate to a line of men that filed past.

      “Gee, you have to line up for everything here, don't you?” Fuselli muttered.

      “That's about all you do do in this hell-hole, buddy,” said a man beside him.

      The man pointed with his thumb at the window and said again:

      “See that rain? Well, I been in this camp three weeks and it ain't stopped rainin' once. What d'yer think of that fer a country?”

      “It certainly ain't like home,” said Fuselli. “I'm going to have some chauclate.”

      “It's damn rotten.”

      “I might as well try it once.”

      Fuselli slouched over to the end of the line and stood waiting his turn. He was thinking of the steep streets of San Francisco and the glimpses he used to get of the harbor full of yellow lights, the color of amber in a cigarette holder, as he went home from work through the blue dusk. He had begun to think of Mabe handing him the five-pound box of candy when his attention was distracted by the talk of the men behind him. The man next to him was speaking with hurried nervous intonation. Fuselli could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

      “I'll be goddamned,” the man said, “was you there too? Where d'you get yours?”

      “In the leg; it's about all right, though.”

      “I ain't. I won't never be all right. The doctor says I'm all right now, but I know I'm not, the lyin' fool.”

      “Some time, wasn't it?”

      “I'll be damned to hell if I do it again. I can't sleep at night thinkin' of the shape of the Fritzies' helmets. Have you ever thought that there was somethin' about the shape of them goddam helmets...?”

      “Ain't they just or'nary shapes?” asked Fuselli, half turning round. “I seen 'em in the movies.” He laughed apologetically.

      “Listen to the rookie, Tub, he's seen 'em in the movies!” said the man with the nervous twitch in his voice, laughing a croaking little laugh. “How long you been in this country, buddy?”

      “Two days.”

      “Well, we only been here two months, ain't we, Tub?”

      “Four months; you're forgettin', kid.”

      The “Y” man turned his set smile on Fuselli while he filled his tin cup up with chocolate.

      “How much?”

      “A franc; one of those looks like a quarter,” said the “Y” man, his well-fed voice full of amiable condescension.

      “That's a hell of a lot for a cup of chauclate,” said Fuselli.

      “You're at the war, young man, remember 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 Fritzies' 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 Chateau, 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 his creaky little laugh. “They got in the way of a torpedo.”

      The “wet” canteen was full of smoke and a cosy steam of beer. It was crowded with red-faced men, with shiny brass buttons on their khaki uniforms, among whom was a good sprinkling of lanky Americans.

      “Tommies,” said Fuselli to himself.

      After standing in line a while, Fuselli's cup was handed back to him across the counter, foaming with beer.

      “Hello, Fuselli,” Meadville clapped him on the shoulder. “You found the liquor pretty damn quick, looks like to me.”

      Fuselli laughed.

      “May I sit with you fellers?”

      “Sure,