The Officer of the Day moved on, flashing his light to one side
and the other in his midnight inspection of the barracks.
Intense blackness again, and the sound of men breathing deeply in
sleep, of men snoring. As he went to sleep Fuselli could hear the
man beside him swearing, monotonously, in an even whisper,
pausing now and then to think of new filth, of new
combinations of words, swearing away his helpless anger,
soothing himself to sleep by the monotonous reiteration of his
swearing.

A little later Fuselli woke with a choked nightmare cry. He had
dreamed that he had smashed the O. D. in the jaw and had broken
out of the jug and was running, breathless, stumbling, falling,
while the company on guard chased him down an avenue lined with
little dried-up saplings, gaining on him, while with voices
metallic as the clicking of rifle triggers officers shouted
orders, so that he was certain to be caught, certain to be shot.
He shook himself all over, shaking off the nightmare as a dog
shakes off water, and went back to sleep again, snuggling into
his blankets.



II

John Andrews stood naked in the center of a large bare room, of
which the walls and ceiling and floor were made of raw pine
boards. The air was heavy from the steam heat. At a desk in one
corner a typewriter clicked spasmodically.