He stopped panting in front of the desk that bore the little red card, Regimental Sergeant-Major. The regimental sergeant-major looked up at him enquiringly. “Here's an application for School at the Sorbonne, Sergeant. Colonel Wilkins told me to run up to you with it, said he was very anxious to have it go in at once.” “Too late,” said the regimental sergeant-major. “But the colonel said it had to go in.” “Can't help it.... Too late,” said the regimental sergeant-major. Andrews felt the room and the men in their olive-drab shirt sleeves at the typewriters and the three nymphs creeping from behind the French War Loan poster whirl round his head. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him: “Is the name Andrews, John, Sarge?” “How the hell should I know?” said the regimental sergeant-major. “Because I've got it in the orders already.... I don't know how it got in.” The voice was Walters's voice, staccatto and businesslike. “Well, then, why d'you want to bother me about it? Give me that paper.” The regimental sergeant-major jerked the paper out of Andrews's hand and looked at it savagely. “All right, you leave tomorrow. A copy of the orders'll go to your company in the morning,” growled the regimental sergeant-major. Andrews looked hard at Walters as he went out, but got no glance in return. When he stood in the air again, disgust surged up within him, bitterer than before. The fury of his humiliation made tears start in his eyes. He walked away from the village down the main road, splashing carelessly through the puddles, slipping in the wet clay of the ditches. Something within him, like the voice of a wounded man swearing, was whining in his head long strings of filthy names. After walking a long while he stopped suddenly with his fists clenched. It was completely dark, the sky was faintly marbled by a moon behind the clouds. On both sides of the road rose the tall grey skeletons of poplars. When the sound of his footsteps stopped, he heard a faint lisp of running water. Standing still in the middle of the road, he felt his feelings gradually relax. He said aloud in a low voice several times: “You are a damn fool, John Andrews,” and started walking slowly and thoughtfully back to the village. V Andrews felt an arm put round his shoulder. “Ah've been to hell an' gone lookin' for you, Andy,” said Chrisfield's voice in his ear, jerking him out of the reverie he walked in. He could feel in his face Chrisfield's breath, heavy with cognac. “I'm going to Paris tomorrow, Chris,” said Andrews. “Ah know it, boy. Ah know it. That's why I was that right smart to talk to you.... You doan want to go to Paris.... Why doan ye come up to Germany with us? Tell me they live like kings up there.” “All right,” said Andrews, “let's go to the back room at Babette's.”