“What’s so funny about that? They’re nothing but ways of making a living.” “Yes, but, Paul,” one of the men interrupted, “if a woman goes around and sleeps with everybody she can’t be very decent, can she?” “As decent as your damned society women every time. Now look here. A woman gits married. And then she leaves her husband.” He stopped. “Got that? Well, she marries another guy and then another. Now, how is she any better than a regular gold-digger?” “This ain’t _no_ place to talk about things like that. No place at all. You all bettah be prayin’ to Gawd that this hyah wah’ll soon be ovah,” said Pugh. Mercifully, the officer of the day walked by and ordered them off to bed. * * * * * On Decoration Day all of the units of the regiment were marched to regimental headquarters and crowded upon the lawn in front of the building occupied by the colonel and his staff. After waiting perhaps an hour, the regimental chaplain, pot-bellied, short-legged, and wholly bald, addressed the soldiers. Vaguely they comprehended that this was the day when fallen heroes were to be especially revered, and that it should also be a day of silent prayer and commemoration for the souls of those who were about to die. Half of the audience heard not a word, and fully three-quarters of them would not have been interested if they had. The platoons filed out and marched over the dusty road for several miles back to their quarters. In some manner the commemoration address of the regimental chaplain left the members of the platoon gloomy. For a long while, as they marched along, there was no sound save for the muffled tramp of feet on the thickly dust-coated road. Finally Kahl ended the silence: “You know, fellows, the regimental chaplain was right. All of us haven’t so damned long to live.” “Come out of it, you gloom bug.” “Why do you care? you’ll be alive to spit on all of our graves. You should worry.” “By God, Kahl’s right. I was up at Battalion P. C. night before last, and I heard some old boy tellin’ Major Adams that we were goin’ back to the front pretty damn quick.” “Pretty damn quick? I guess we are. The battalion runner told me that we was shovin’ off for the front to-night,” Pugh contributed. To all this conversation Goldman, a New York Jew, who had given his occupation as a travelling salesman, listened eagerly without appearing especially to do so. His prominent, fluid-brown eyes were turned upon Pugh, and they continued furtively to watch him while he spoke. “You know, they say it’s hell up at the front now. The Squareheads have busted through and the Frogs are fallin’ back as fast as they can. I betcha,” Pugh continued excitedly, “that we’ll be up to the front in less than—in less than a week.” “Yeh, an’ they say they cut ya where you don’ wanna be cut.” “Pipe down, you men back there. Who gave you permission to talk?” Sergeant Harriman called.