Ben was lying in his bunk trying to decide whether to make an effort to join the crap game outside, Esky was panting so hard underneath me that the head of my bunk was quivering, and I was about wilted. I’d have given my right eye for a bath—even considered surrendering my honor for one. I tried Christian Science to see if I could make my imagination control my body: if faith can move mountains, it certainly ought to be good for a little spell of comfort even in this god-awful sweatshop. Oho, for the life of a soldier in this man’s war! What a dumb-bell I was to imagine there was anything glorious or exciting about this business! —3— One morning I came back to the bunk hole, found Ben there and told him, “The General says Chilblaines is sicker’n a dog and has lost everything he ever ate in his life. Isn’t that good news?” Ben just took one look at me and made a dive for the G.I. can that was set, for this very purpose, in the middle of the compartment. He was engaged there for some little time and the sounds he emitted could be heard above the monotonous hum of pumps and engines. When he finally stumbled back to his berth, he looked as if he had lost twenty pounds, but he managed a hollow-eyed grin and observed, “I hope he’s unconscious the rest o’ the trip! Might o’ known somethin’ was wrong when he didn’t come snoopin’ around all this time. Serves him damn well right.” And he flopped into his bunk—or rather, his huge frame flopped, his legs hanging awry over the edge. He didn’t have strength enough to lift them up, too. I said that I thought Chilblaines’ attack of seasickness was an act of Providence intended to safeguard Esky’s passage. “Or maybe the vengeance of the Lord,” I added. “Ugh—” he groaned. “What the hell did I ever do to be treated like this?” He opened his eyes and stared at me. “Leony—be a good kid and get me a wet towel or somethin’.” So I got him a wet towel and a couple of lemons, and just as I was leaving, I discovered the remains of a plug of chewing tobacco on the deck. “Here’s your tobacco, Ben,” I said, laying it on his berth in front of his face. “Aw, my God!” he cried out. “Don’t ya know I’m sick! Christ, I think I’m gonna die!” I had to laugh. “That’s what everyone thinks, Ben, when they get seasick. I know what it is.” He just moaned and began sucking one of the lemons. I got out—looking at him made me feel unsteady, too, and both of us couldn’t be sick at once. I spent that day running back and forth between Ben and the General, and I must say that being with the General was like recreation compared to what I had to endure there. Ben wasn’t the only one that was sick. About half the compartment was on the trot to the G.I. can and up on deck every other man was sucking a lemon. The mess hall was doing a very, very dull business: you didn’t have to stand in line very long now to get your chow.