"Will you fellers quit talkin'? It's after taps," thundered the
sergeant, who sat reading the paper at a little board desk at the
door of the barracks under the feeble light of one small bulb,
carefully screened. "You'll have the O. D. down on us."

Fuselli wrapped the blanket round his head and prepared to sleep.
Snuggled down into the blankets on the narrow cot, he felt
sheltered from the sergeant's thundering voice and from the cold
glare of officers' eyes. He felt cosy and happy like he had felt
in bed at home, when he had been a little kid. For a moment he
pictured to himself the other man, the man who had punched an
officer's jaw, dressed like he was, maybe only nineteen, the same
age like he was, with a girl like Mabe waiting for him somewhere.
How cold and frightful it must feel to be out of the camp with the
guard looking for you! He pictured himself running breathless down
a long street pursued by a company with guns, by officers whose
eyes glinted cruelly like the pointed tips of bullets. He pulled
the blanket closer round his head, enjoying the warmth and
softness of the wool against his cheek. He must remember to smile
at the sergeant when he passed him off duty. Somebody had said
there'd be promotions soon. Oh, he wanted so hard to be promoted.
It'd be so swell if he could write back to Mabe and tell her to
address her letters Corporal Dan Fuselli. He must be more careful
not to do anything that would get him in wrong with anybody. He
must never miss an opportunity to show them what a clever kid he
was. "Oh, when we're ordered overseas, I'll show them," he thought
ardently, and picturing to himself long movie reels of heroism he
went off to sleep.

A sharp voice beside his cot woke him with a jerk.