Produced by Eve Sobol THREE SOLDIERS By John Dos Passos 1921 LIST OF CONTENTS PART ONE: MAKING THE MOULD PART TWO: THE METAL COOLS PART THREE: MACHINES PART FOUR: RUST PART FIVE: THE WORLD OUTSIDE PART SIX: UNDER THE WHEELS “Les contemporains qui souffrent de certaines choses ne peuvent s'en souvenir qu'avec une horreur qui paralyse tout autre plaisir, meme celui de lire un conte.” STENDHAL PART ONE: MAKING THE MOULD I The company stood at attention, each man looking straight before him at the empty parade ground, where the cinder piles showed purple with evening. On the wind that smelt of barracks and disinfectant there was a faint greasiness of food cooking. At the other side of the wide field long lines of men shuffled slowly into the narrow wooden shanty that was the mess hall. Chins down, chests out, legs twitching and tired from the afternoon's drilling, the company stood at attention. Each man stared straight in front of him, some vacantly with resignation, some trying to amuse themselves by noting minutely every object in their field of vision,--the cinder piles, the long shadows of the barracks and mess halls where they could see men standing about, spitting, smoking, leaning against clapboard walls. Some of the men in line could hear their watches ticking in their pockets. Someone moved, his feet making a crunching noise in the cinders. The sergeant's voice snarled out: “You men are at attention. Quit yer wrigglin' there, you!” The men nearest the offender looked at him out of the corners of their eyes. Two officers, far out on the parade ground, were coming towards them. By their gestures and the way they walked, the men at attention could see that they were chatting about something that amused them. One of the officers laughed boyishly, turned away and walked slowly back across the parade ground. The other, who was the lieutenant, came towards them smiling. As he approached his company, the smile left his lips and he advanced his chin, walking with heavy precise steps. “Sergeant, you may dismiss the company.” The lieutenant's voice was pitched in a hard staccato. The sergeant's hand snapped up to salute like a block signal. “Companee dis...missed,” he rang out. The row of men in khaki became a crowd of various individuals with dusty boots and dusty faces. Ten minutes later they lined up and marched in a column of fours to mess. A few red filaments of electric lights gave a dusty glow in the brownish obscurity where the long tables and benches and the board floors had a faint smell of garbage mingled with the smell of the disinfectant the tables had been washed off with after the last meal. The men, holding their oval mess kits in front of them, filed by the great tin buckets at the door, out of which meat and potatoes were splashed into each plate by a sweating K.P. in blue denims.