3 books to know World War I. John Dos Passos

the truth. And in the tyranny of the army a man becomes a brute, a piece of machinery. Remember you are freer than we are. We are worse than the Russians!”

      “It is curious!... O but you must have some feeling of civilization. I have always heard that Americans were free and independent. Will they let themselves be driven to the slaughter always?”

      “O I don't know.” Eisenstein got to his feet. “We'd better be getting to barracks. Coming, Fuselli?” he said.

      “Guess so,” said Fuselli indifferently, without getting up.

      Eisenstein and the Frenchman went out into the shop.

      “Bon swar,” said Fuselli, softly, leaning across the table. “Hey, girlie?”

      He threw himself on his belly on the wide table and put his arms round her neck and kissed her, feeling everything go blank in a flame of desire.

      She pushed him away calmly with strong little arms.

      “Stop!” she said, and jerked her head in the direction of the old woman in the chair in the dark corner of the room. They stood side by side listening to her faint wheezy snoring. He put his arms round her and kissed her long on the mouth.

      “Demain,” he said.

      She nodded her head.

      Fuselli walked fast up the dark street towards the camp. The blood pounded happily through his veins. He caught up with Eisenstein.

      “Say, Eisenstein,” he said in a comradely voice, “I don't think you ought to go talking round like that. You'll get yourself in too deep one of these days.”

      “I don't care!”

      “But, hell, man, you don't want to get in the wrong that bad. They shoot fellers for less than you said.”

      “Let them.”

      “Christ, man, you don't want to be a damn fool,” expostulated Fuselli.

      “How old are you, Fuselli?”

      “I'm twenty now.”

      “I'm thirty. I've lived more, kid. I know what's good and what's bad. This butchery makes me unhappy.”

      “God, I know. It's a hell of a note. But who brought it on? If somebody had shot that Kaiser.”

      Eisenstein laughed bitterly. At the entrance of camp Fuselli lingered a moment watching the small form of Eisenstein disappear with its curious waddly walk into the darkness.

      “I'm going to be damn careful who I'm seen goin' into barracks with,” he said to himself. “That damn kike may be a German spy or a secret-service officer.” A cold chill of terror went over him, shattering his mood of joyous self-satisfaction. His feet slopped in the puddles, breaking through the thin ice, as he walked up the road towards the barracks. He felt as if people were watching him from everywhere out of the darkness, as if some gigantic figure were driving him forward through the darkness, holding a fist over his head, ready to crush him.

      When he was rolled up in his blankets in the bunk next to Bill Grey, he whispered to his friend:

      “Say, Bill, I think I've got a skirt all fixed up in town.”

      “Who?”

      “Yvonne—don't tell anybody.”

      Bill Grey whistled softly.

      “You're some highflyer, Dan.”

      Fuselli chuckled.

      “Hell, man, the best ain't good enough for me.”

      “Well, I'm going to leave you,” said Bill Grey.

      “When?”

      “Damn soon. I can't go this life. I don't see how you can.”

      Fuselli did not answer. He snuggled warmly into his blankets, thinking of Yvonne and the corporalship.

      In the light of the one flickering lamp that made an unsteady circle of reddish glow on the station platform Fuselli looked at his pass. From Reveille on February fourth to Reveille on February fifth he was a free man. His eyes smarted with sleep as he walked up and down the cold station platform. For twenty-four hours he wouldn't have to obey anybody's orders. Despite the loneliness of going away on a train in a night like this in a strange country Fuselli was happy. He clinked the money in his pocket.

      Down the track a red eye appeared and grew nearer. He could hear the hard puffing of the engine up the grade. Huge curves gleamed as the engine roared slowly past him. A man with bare arms black with coal dust was leaning out of the cab, lit up from behind by a yellowish red glare. Now the cars were going by, flat cars with guns, tilted up like the muzzles of hunting dogs, freight cars out of which here and there peered a man's head. The train almost came to a stop. The cars clanged one against the other all down the train. Fuselli was looking into a pair of eyes that shone in the lamplight; a hand was held out to him.

      “So long, kid,” said a boyish voice. “I don't know who the hell you are, but so long; good luck.”

      “So long,” stammered Fuselli. “Going to the front?”

      “Yer goddam right,” answered another voice.

      The train took up speed again; the clanging of car against car ceased and in a moment they were moving fast before Fuselli's eyes. Then the station was dark and empty again, and he was watching the red light grow smaller and paler while the train rumbled on into the darkness.

      A confusion of gold and green and crimson silks and intricate designs of naked pink-fleshed cupids filled Fuselli's mind, when, full of wonder, he walked down the steps of the palace out into the faint ruddy sunlight of the afternoon. A few names, Napoleon, Josephine, the Empire, that had never had significance in his mind before, flared with a lurid gorgeous light in his imagination like a tableau of living statues at a vaudeville theatre.

      “They must have had a heap of money, them guys,” said the man who was with him, a private in Aviation. “Let's go have a drink.”

      Fuselli was silent and absorbed in his thoughts. Here was something that supplemented his visions of wealth and glory that he used to tell Al about, when they'd sit and watch the big liners come in, all glittering with lights, through the Golden Gate.

      “They didn't mind having naked women about, did they?” said the private in Aviation, a morose foul-mouthed little man who had been in the woolen business. “D'ye blame them?”

      “No, I can't say's I do.... I bet they was immoral, them guys,” he continued vaguely.

      They wandered about the streets of Fontainebleau listlessly, looking into shop windows, staring at women, lolling on benches in the parks where the faint sunlight came through a lacework of twigs purple and crimson and yellow, that cast intricate lavender-grey shadows on the asphalt.

      “Let's go have another drink,” said the private in Aviation.

      Fuselli looked at his watch; they had hours before train time.

      A girl in a loose dirty blouse wiped off the table.

      “Vin blank,” said the other man.

      “Mame shows,” said Fuselli.

      His head was full of gold and green mouldings and silk and crimson velvet and intricate designs in which naked pink-fleshed cupids writhed indecently. Some day, he was saying to himself, he'd make a hell of a lot of money and live in a house like that with Mabe; no, with Yvonne, or with some other girl.

      “Must have been immoral, them guys,” said the private in Aviation, leering at the girl in the dirty blouse.

      Fuselli remembered a revel he'd seen in a moving picture of “Quo Vadis,” people in bath robes dancing around with large cups in their hands and tables full of dishes being upset.

      “Cognac,