“Who the hell gave you permission to give us permission to talk?” some one indistinctly asked. The platoon plodded along, their thoughts too taken up with the matter at hand—arriving at their quarters, being fed, and going to sleep—to give further thought to the eventuality of their being killed. When they swung into their quarters, the fumes of the concoction which they had cheerfully and not inaccurately entitled “slum” were apparent to them. It assaulted their nostrils, but it was acceptable to empty stomachs. They sat around; some were cross-legged on the ground, others sat upon manure piles, with their mess-gears half filled with slum by their sides. Hicks and Pugh were seated together. “What was that,” Hicks asked, “you were saying about going to the front? Was that just general orders from the head, or was it straight?” “Ah jist told you what I heard, Hicksy. Some old guy told Major Adams that we’d be gittin’ out of here damn quick. That’s all I know. But say, it wouldn’t surprise me none if we went any time. Even to-night.” “Oh, hell, no. Not to-night. I’m too damned tired to move. I’d go to the sick bay if we shoved off to-night.” Hicks was despondent. Pugh shrugged his shoulders and once more attacked his slum. A moment later the company commander walked toward the place where the men were eating. He was followed by the first sergeant. He approached Harriman. “Sergeant,” he said, “have your platoon make up their packs and stand by. Let no one go to bed, and be ready to leave at any moment.” “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Harriman. “By God, Pugh, you were right, you uncanny bitch. It’s to-night that we leave,” said Hicks. * * * * * Midnight. Long rubber ponchos were drawn over recumbent figures; heads were pillowed by packs; sleep remained impervious to Allied propaganda. There was a tearing noise as a rifle exploded. The company commander came running out of the farmhouse, where he and the other officers lodged with the farmer and his family. “What the devil are you men trying to do?” “Somebody’s shot himself, captain.” The first sergeant followed, bringing with him an electric torch. He hurried to the place where a group of men had gathered. Pushing through, he directed the rays of the torch toward the body. It was Goldman. He had placed the butt of the rifle on the ground, and with the muzzle pressed against his throat, had forced the trigger with his toe. There he lay, with one shoe off and the blood streaming from a hole in his jaw. VI The platoon assembled and joined the rest of the company along the road. They marched off in the darkness, melting in with the immeasurable stream of olive drab that grew at every cross-road.