"Say, young feller, d'you know how to spell imbecility?"

John Andrews walked over to the desk, told him, and added, "Are
you going to examine me?"

The man went on typewriting without answering. John Andrews stood
in the center of the floor with his arms folded, half amused, half
angry, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, listening
to the sound of the typewriter and of the man's voice as he read
out each word of the report he was copying.

"Recommendation for discharge"...click, click..."Damn this
typewriter.... Private Coe Elbert"...click, click. "Damn these
rotten army typewriters.... Reason...mental deficiency. History of
Case.... " At that moment the recruiting sergeant came back. "Look
here, if you don't have that recommendation ready in ten minutes
Captain Arthurs'll be mad as hell about it, Hill. For God's sake
get it done. He said already that if you couldn't do the work, to
get somebody who could. You don't want to lose your job do you?"

"Hullo," the sergeant's eyes lit on John Andrews, "I'd forgotten
you. Run around the room a little.... No, not that way. Just a
little so I can test yer heart.... God, these rookies are thick."

While he stood tamely being prodded and measured, feeling like a
prize horse at a fair, John Andrews listened to the man at the
typewriter, whose voice went on monotonously. "No...record of
sexual dep.... O hell, this eraser's no good!... pravity or
alcoholism; spent...normal...youth on farm. App-ear-ance normal
though im...say, how many 'm's' in immature?"