Free Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos

to be put to work. The lieutenant strode along importantly. The sergeant strode along importantly. The corporal strode along importantly. The right guard strode along more importantly than anyone. A sense of importance, of something tremendous to do, animated the company like wine, made the packs and the belts seem less heavy, made their necks and shoulders less stiff from struggling with the weight of the packs, made the ninety-six legs tramp jauntily in spite of the oozy mud and the deep putty-colored puddles.
    It was cold in the dark shed of the freight station where they waited. Some gas lamps flickered feebly high up among the rafters, lighting up in a ghastly way white piles of ammunition boxes and ranks and ranks of shells that disappeared in the darkness. The raw air was full of coal smoke and a smell of freshly-cut boards. The captain and the top sergeant had disappeared. The men sat about, huddled in groups, sinking as far as they could into their overcoats, stamping their numb wet feet on the mud-covered cement of the floor. The sliding doors were shut. Through them came a monotonous sound of cars shunting, of buffers bumping against buffers, and now and then the shrill whistle of an engine.
    “Hell, the French railroads are rotten,” said someone.
    “How d’you know?” snapped Eisenstein, who sat on a box away from the rest with his lean face in his hands staring at his mud-covered boots.
    “Look at this,” Bill Grey made a disgusted gesture towards the ceiling.
    “Gas. Don’t even have electric light.”
    “Their trains run faster than ours,” said Eisenstein.
    “The hell they do. Why, a fellow back in that rest camp told me that it took four or five days to get anywhere.”
    “He was stuffing you,” said Eisenstein. “They used to run the fastest trains in the world in France.”
    “Not so fast as the ‘Twentieth Century.’ Goddam, I’m a railroad man and I know.”
    “I want five men to help me sort out the eats,” said the top sergeant, coming suddenly out of the shadows. “Fuselli, Grey, Eisenstein, Meadville, Williams … all right, come along.”
    “Say, Sarge, this guy says that frog trains are faster than our trains. What d’ye think o’ that?”
    The sergeant put on his comic expression. Everybody got ready to laugh.
    “Well, if he’d rather take the side-door Pullmans we’re going to get aboard tonight than the ‘Sunset Limited,’ he’s welcome. I’ve seen ’em. You fellers haven’t.”
    Everybody laughed. The top sergeant turned confidentially to the five men who followed him into a small well-lighted room that looked like a freight office.
    “We’ve got to sort out the grub, fellers. See those cases? That’s three days’ rations for the outfit. I want to sort it into three lots, one for each car. Understand?”
    Fuselli pulled open one of the boxes. The cans of bully beef flew under his fingers. He kept looking out of the corner of his eye at Eisenstein, who seemed very skillful in a careless way. The top sergeant stood beaming at them with his legs wide apart. Once he said something in a low voice to the corporal. Fuselli thought he caught the words: “privates first-class,” and his heart started thumping hard. In a few minutes the job was done, and everybody stood about lighting cigarettes.
    “Well, fellers,” said Sergeant Jones, the sombre man who rarely spoke, “I certainly didn’t reckon when I used to be teachin’ and preachin’ and tendin’ Sunday School and the like that I’d come to be usin’ cuss words, but I think we got a damn good company.”
    “Oh, we’ll have you sayin’ worse things than ‘damn’ when we get you out on the front with a goddam German aëroplane droppin’ bombs on you,” said the top sergeant, slapping him on the back. “Now, I want you five men to look out for the grub.” Fuselli’s chest swelled. “The company’ll be in charge of the corporal for the night. Sergeant Jones and I have got to be with the