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.