3 books to know World War I. John Dos Passos

can play,” said Bill Grey who, with his hands in his pockets, slouched along beside Fuselli.

      They looked in the door of one of the barracks. A lot of soldiers were sitting in a ring round two tall negroes whose black faces and chests glistened like jet in the faint light.

      “Come on, Charley, give us another,” said someone.

      “Do Ah git it now, or mus' Ah hesit-ate?”

      One negro began chanting while the other strummed carelessly on the guitar.

      “No, give us the 'Titanic.'”

      The guitar strummed in a crooning rag-time for a moment. The negro's voice broke into it suddenly, pitched high.

      “Dis is de song ob de Titanic, Sailin' on de sea.”

      The guitar strummed on. There had been a tension in the negro's voice that had made everyone stop talking. The soldiers looked at him curiously.

      “How de Titanic ran in dat cole iceberg,

      How de Titanic ran in dat cole iceberg

      Sailin' on de sea.”

      His voice was confidential and soft, and the guitar strummed to the same sobbing rag-time. Verse after verse the voice grew louder and the strumming faster.

      “De Titanic's sinkin' in de deep blue,

      Sinkin' in de deep blue, deep blue,

      Sinkin' in de sea.

      O de women an' de chilen a-floatin' in de sea,

      O de women an' de chilen a-floatin' in de sea,

      Roun' dat cole iceberg,

      Sung 'Nearer, my gawd, to Thee,'

      Sung 'Nearer, my gawd, to Thee,

      Nearer to Thee.'”

      The guitar was strumming the hymn-tune. The negro was singing with every cord in his throat taut, almost sobbing.

      A man next to Fuselli took careful aim and spat into the box of sawdust in the middle of the ring of motionless soldiers.

      The guitar played the rag-time again, fast, almost mockingly. The negro sang in low confidential tones.

      “O de women an' de chilen dey sank in de sea.

      O de women an' de chilen dey sank in de sea,

      Roun' dat cole iceberg.”

      Before he had finished a bugle blew in the distance. Everybody scattered.

      Fuselli and Bill Grey went silently back to their barracks.

      “It must be an awful thing to drown in the sea,” said Grey as he rolled himself in his blankets. “If one of those bastard U-boats...”

      “I don't give a damn,” said Fuselli boisterously; but as he lay staring into the darkness, cold terror stiffened him suddenly. He thought for a moment of deserting, pretending he was sick, anything to keep from going on the transport.

      “O de women an' de chilen dey sank in de sea,

      Roun” dat cole iceberg.”

      He could feel himself going down through icy water. “It's a hell of a thing to send a guy over there to drown,” he said to himself, and he thought of the hilly streets of San Francisco, and the glow of the sunset over the harbor and ships coming in through the Golden Gate. His mind went gradually blank and he went to sleep.

      The column was like some curious khaki-colored carpet, hiding the road as far as you could see. In Fuselli's company the men were shifting their weight from one foot to the other, muttering, “What the hell a' they waiting for now?” Bill Grey, next to Fuselli in the ranks, stood bent double so as to take the weight of his pack off his shoulders. They were at a cross-roads on fairly high ground so that they could see the long sheds and barracks of the camp stretching away in every direction, in rows and rows, broken now and then by a grey drill field. In front of them the column stretched to the last bend in the road, where it disappeared on a hill among mustard-yellow suburban houses.

      Fuselli was excited. He kept thinking of the night before, when he had helped the sergeant distribute emergency rations, and had carried about piles of boxes of hard bread, counting them carefully without a mistake. He felt full of desire to do things, to show what he was good for. “Gee,” he said to himself, “this war's a lucky thing for me. I might have been in the R.C. Vicker Company's store for five years an' never got a raise, an' here in the army I got a chance to do almost anything.”

      Far ahead down the road the column was beginning to move. Voices shouting orders beat crisply on the morning air. Fuselli's heart was thumping. He felt proud of himself and of the company—the damn best company in the whole outfit. The company ahead was moving, it was their turn now.

      “Forwa—ard, march!”

      They were lost in the monotonous tramp of feet. Dust rose from the road, along which like a drab brown worm crawled the column.

      A sickening unfamiliar smell choked their nostrils.

      “What are they taking us down here for?”

      “Damned if I know.”

      They were filing down ladders into the terrifying pit which the hold of the ship seemed to them. Every man had a blue card in his hand with a number on it. In a dim place like an empty warehouse they stopped. The sergeant shouted out:

      “I guess this is our diggings. We'll have to make the best of it.” Then he disappeared.

      Fuselli looked about him. He was sitting in one of the lowest of three tiers of bunks roughly built of new pine boards. Electric lights placed here and there gave a faint reddish tone to the gloom, except at the ladders, where high-power lamps made a white glare. The place was full of tramping of feet and the sound of packs being thrown on bunks as endless files of soldiers poured in down every ladder. Somewhere down the alley an officer with a shrill voice was shouting to his men: “Speed it up there; speed it up there.” Fuselli sat on his bunk looking at the terrifying confusion all about, feeling bewildered and humiliated. For how many days would they be in that dark pit? He suddenly felt angry. They had no right to treat a feller like that. He was a man, not a bale of hay to be bundled about as anybody liked.

      “An' if we're torpedoed a fat chance we'll have down here,” he said aloud.

      “They got sentries posted to keep us from goin up on deck,” said someone.

      “God damn them. They treat you like you was a steer being taken over for meat.”

      “Well, you're not a damn sight more. Meat for the guns.”

      A little man lying in one of the upper bunks had spoken suddenly, contracting his sallow face into a curious spasm, as if the words had burst from him in spite of an effort to keep them in.

      Everybody looked up at him angrily.

      “That goddam kike Eisenstein,” muttered someone.

      “Say, tie that bull outside,” shouted Bill Grey good-naturedly.

      “Fools,” muttered Eisenstein, turning over and burying his face in his hands.

      “Gee, I wonder what it is makes it smell so funny down here,” said Fuselli.

      Fuselli lay flat on deck resting his head on his crossed arms. When he looked straight up he could see a lead-colored mast sweep back and forth across the sky full of clouds of light grey and silver and dark purplish-grey showing yellowish at the edges. When he tilted his head a little to one side he could see Bill Grey's heavy colorless face and the dark bristles of his unshaven chin and his mouth a little twisted to the left, from which a cigarette dangled unlighted. Beyond were heads and bodies huddled together in a mass of khaki overcoats and life preservers. And when the roll tipped the deck he had a view of moving green waves and of a steamer striped grey