He returned three feet in rear and three inches to the left of Captain Powers. “How do you do, lieutenant?” Captain Powers rubbed his sleepy eyes. “Captain,” the lieutenant’s voice rang out, “Major-General Bumble will be ready to inspect your organization in”—he looked at his wrist-watch—“two hours.” “Very well, sir.” Captain Powers returned the lieutenant’s salute. He again rubbed his eyes and turned to Sergeant Harriman. “Harriman, have the men got up immediately, police up, and be ready to stand inspection in one hour and a half.” “Aye, aye, sir.” Sergeant Harriman saluted sharply. “And Harriman.” “Sir!” “Pass the word on to the sergeants of the other platoons. We officers have had a pretty hard night of it, and I am going to try and get some sleep before the general returns.” Sergeant Harriman ran through the bunk houses, informing the other platoon sergeants of their fortune. That finished, he returned to his own bunk house, and, starting along the row of sleeping men, unerringly picked the corporals of the squads and instructed them to awaken their squads. Soon the bunk house was filled with cries of: “Up you come, you dopes. Rise and shine.” “Is everybody up?” “Then fall in beside your bunks and answer to roll-call.” “Now,” said Sergeant Harriman, as he finished calling the platoon call, “you’ve got jist one hour to police up and be ready to stand general inspection. Snap into it.” Meeting between the platoon and general officers had been very limited; each man was overwhelmed with awe at the thought of a major-general inspecting him. The scene changed to one of frenzied activity. Dampened rags were rubbed over the stocks of the rifles; the rifle bores were cleaned, their chambers, trigger-guard, and other metal pieces were meticulously brushed; knives were put into use to scrape off the mud from the shoes and clothing; the blankets were stripped from the bunks and rolled into neat packs; water was found and stubbles of beard disappeared magically under the sharp edges of razors, or else were hidden by heavy coatings of talcum powder. An hour afterward the platoon was in line in front of the bunk house. Clicking his heels sharply, for he wore barracks shoes because his tender feet were unable to stand the heavy hobnails issued to the soldier, Sergeant Harriman halted before his command. “Ha-right, dress.” His diaphragm, which had been expanded, noticeably contracted as he uttered the command of execution. “Back just a trifle, Hayes. Move your feet.... Come out, you man in the third squad of the front rank. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Step out a bit. Dammit, move your feet. All right, Corporal Kahl, suck in your gut and throw out your chest. There....” The moment was tense. “Stea-a-dy. Front.” The left arms of the men were dropped smartly at their sides.