“God, I can't make up my mind to put the damn thing on again,” said Andrews in a low voice, almost as if he were talking to himself; “I feel so clean and free. It's like voluntarily taking up filth and slavery again.... I think I'll just walk off naked across the fields.” “D'you call serving your country slavery, my friend?” The “Y” man, who had been roaming among the bathers, his neat uniform and well-polished boots and puttees contrasting strangely with the mud-clotted, sweat-soaked clothing of the men about him, sat down on the grass beside Andrews. “You're goddam right I do.” “You'll get into trouble, my boy, if you talk that way,” said the “Y” man in a cautious voice. “Well, what is your definition of slavery?” “You must remember that you are a voluntary worker in the cause of democracy.... You're doing this so that your children will be able to live peaceful....” “Ever shot a man?” “No.... No, of course not, but I'd have enlisted, really I would. Only my eyes are weak.” “I guess so,” said Andrews under his breath. “Remember that your women folks, your sisters and sweethearts and mothers, are praying for you at this instant.” “I wish somebody'd pray me into a clean shirt,” said Andrews, starting to get into his clothes. “How long have you been over here?” “Just three months.” The man's sallow face, with its pinched nose and chin lit up. “But, boys, those three months have been worth all the other years of my min--” he caught himself--“life.... I've heard the great heart of America beat. O boys, never forget that you are in a great Christian undertaking.” “Come on, Chris, let's beat it.” They left the “Y” man wandering among the men along the bank of the pond, to which the reflection of the greenish silvery sky and the great piled white clouds gave all the free immensity of space. From the road they could still hear his high pitched voice. “And that's what'll survive you and me,” said Andrews. “Say, Andy, you sure can talk to them guys,” said Chris admiringly. “What's the use of talking? God, there's a bit of honeysuckle still in bloom. Doesn't that smell like home to you, Chris?” “Say, how much do they pay those 'Y' men, Andy?” “Damned if I know.” They were just in time to fall into line for mess. In the line everyone was talking and laughing, enlivened by the smell of food and the tinkle of mess-kits. Near the field kitchen Chrisfield saw Sergeant Anderson talking with Higgins, his own sergeant. They were laughing together, and he heard Anderson's big voice saying jovially, “We've pulled through this time, Higgins.... I guess we will again.” The two sergeants looked at each other and cast a paternal, condescending glance over their men and laughed aloud.