His reiterated announcement was unnecessary. Already half-dressed soldiers were rushing through the entrance of the building and toward the approaching sergeant. “All right, you men. If you can’t appear in uniform get off of the company street.” Sergeant Harriman was commanding. In their eagerness to hear the list of names called out the men forgot even to grumble, but scrambled back through the doorway overflowing the long hall off of which were six rooms, devoid of furniture, which had been converted into barracks. Sergeant Harriman, feeling the entire amount of pleasure to be had from the added importance of distributing the mail—the first the platoon had received in two months—cleared his throat, took a steadfast position and gave his attention to the small bundle of letters which he held in his hand. He deftly riffled them twice without speaking. Then he separated the letters belonging to the non-commissioned officers, the corporals, and sergeants from those addressed to the privates. The non-commissioned officers received their letters first. At last: “Private Hicks,” he read off. “Here, here I am. Back here.” Private Hicks was all aflutter. Separated from the letter by a crowd of men, he stood on tiptoe and reached his arm far over the shoulder of the man in front of him. “Pass it back to him? Pass it back to him?” voices impatiently asked. “No!” Sergeant Harriman was a commander, every inch of him. “Come up and get it, Hicks.” “Hey, snap out of it, will ya! Call off the rest of the names.” A path was made, and Hicks finally received the letter. Harriman looked up. “If you men don’t shut up, you will never get your mail!” “Private Pugh!” “Hee-ah. Gimme that lettah. That’s f’m mah sweet mammah.” Pugh wormed his small, skinny body through the men, fretfully calling at those who did not make way quickly enough. He grasped the letter. Then he started back, putting the letter in his pocket unopened. “Poor old Pugh. Gets a letter and he can’t read.” “Ain’t that a waste of stationery?” “Why don’t you ask the captain to write an’ tell your folks not to send you any more mail? Look at all the trouble you cause these mail clerks.” Several men offered to read the letter to Pugh, but he did not answer. An hour later the first sergeant was walking up and down in front of the billets, blowing his whistle. Bugle-calls were taboo. “Shake it up, you men. Don’t you know you’re supposed to be ready for drill at nine o’clock?” “Drill! I thought we come up here to fight,” voices grumbled, muttering obscene phrases directed at General Pershing, the company commander, and the first sergeant. Men scurried out of their billets, struggling to get on their packs and to fall in line before the roll was called.