“Everything all right, sergeant? Everything all right?” he asked several times, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “All ready for entrainment, sir,” said the sergeant heartily. “Very good, I'll let you know the order of march in a minute.” Fuselli's ears pounded with strange excitement. These phrases, “entrainment,” “order of march,” had a businesslike sound. He suddenly started to wonder how it would feel to be under fire. Memories of movies flickered in his mind. “Gawd, ain't I glad to git out o' this hell-hole,” he said to the man next him. “The next one may be more of a hell-hole yet, buddy,” said the sergeant striding up and down with his important confident walk. Everybody laughed. “He's some sergeant, our sergeant is,” said the man next to Fuselli. “He's got brains in his head, that boy has.” “All right, break ranks,” said the sergeant, “but if anybody moves away from this barracks, I'll put him in K. P. Till--till he'll be able to peel spuds in his sleep.” The company laughed again. Fuselli noticed with displeasure that the tall man with the shrill voice whose name had been called first on the roll did not laugh but spat disgustedly out of the corner of his mouth. “Well, there are bad eggs in every good bunch,” thought Fuselli. It gradually grew grey with dawn. Fuselli's legs were tired from standing so long. Outside all the barracks, as far as he could see up the street, men stood in ragged lines waiting. The sun rose hot on a cloudless day. A few sparrows twittered about the tin roof of the barracks. “Hell, we're not goin' this day.” “Why?” asked somebody savagely. “Troops always leaves at night.” “The hell they do!” “Here comes Sarge.” Everybody craned their necks in the direction pointed out. The sergeant strolled up with a mysterious smile on his face. “Put away your overcoats and get out your mess kits.” Mess kits clattered and gleamed in the slanting rays of the sun. They marched to the mess hall and back again, lined up again with packs and waited some more. Everybody began to get tired and peevish. Fuselli wondered where his old friends of the other company were. They were good kids too, Chris and that educated fellow, Andrews. Tough luck they couldn't have come along. The sun rose higher. Men sneaked into the barracks one by one and lay down on the bare cots. “What you want to bet we won't leave this camp for a week yet?” asked someone. At noon they lined up for mess again, ate dismally and hurriedly. As Fuselli was leaving the mess hall tapping a tattoo on his kit with two dirty finger nails, the corporal spoke to him in a low voice. “Be sure to wash yer kit, buddy. We may have pack inspection.” The corporal was a slim yellow-faced man with a wrinkled skin, though he was still young, and an arrow-shaped mouth that opened and shut like the paper mouths children make.