“There ye are,” said Judkins in a solemn tone. “He don't even go after his pay. That guy thinks he's the whole show, he does.” Chrisfield flushed, but said nothing. “He don't do nothing all day long but talk to that ole lady,” said Small with a grin. “Guess she reminds him of his mother, or somethin'.” “He always does go round with the frogs all he can. Looks to me like he'd rather have a drink with a frog than with an American.” “Reckon he wants to learn their language,” said Small. “He won't never come to much in this army, that's what I'm telling yer,” said Judkins. The little houses across the way had flushed red with the sunset. Andrews got to his feet slowly and languidly and held out his hand to the old woman. She stood up, a small tottering figure in a black silk shawl. He leaned over towards her and she kissed both his cheeks vigorously several times. He walked down the road towards the billets, with his fatigue cap in his hand, looking at the ground. “He's got a flower behind his ear, like a cigarette,” said Judkins, with a disgusted snort. “Well, I guess we'd better go,” said Small. “We got to be in quarters at six.” They were silent a moment. In the distance the guns kept up a continual tomtom sound. “Guess we'll be in that soon,” said Small. Chrisfield felt a chill go down his spine. He moistened his lips with his tongue. “Guess it's hell out there,” said Judkins. “War ain't no picnic.” “Ah doan give a hoot in hell,” said Chrisfield. The men were lined up in the village street with their packs on, waiting for the order to move. Thin wreaths of white mist still lingered in the trees and over the little garden plots. The sun had not yet risen, but ranks of clouds in the pale blue sky overhead were brilliant with crimson and gold. The men stood in an irregular line, bent over a little by the weight of their equipment, moving back and forth, stamping their feet and beating their arms together, their noses and ears red from the chill of the morning. The haze of their breath rose above their heads. Down the misty road a drab-colored limousine appeared, running slowly. It stopped in front of the line of men. The lieutenant came hurriedly out of the house opposite, drawing on a pair of gloves. The men standing in line looked curiously at the limousine. They could see that two of the tires were flat and that the glass was broken. There were scratches on the drab paint and in the door three long jagged holes that obliterated the number. A little murmur went down the line of men. The door opened with difficulty, and a major in a light buff-colored coat stumbled out. One arm, wrapped in bloody bandages, was held in a sling made of a handkerchief. His face was white and drawn into a stiff mask with pain. The lieutenant saluted. “For God's sake where's a repair station?” he asked in a loud shaky voice. “There's none in this village, Major.” “Where the hell is there one?” “I don't know,” said the lieutenant in a humble tone.