Andrews made a grimace and began collecting the little grey sordid
ends of burnt-out cigarettes. As he leant over he found himself
looking into the dark-brown eyes of the soldier who was working
beside him. The eyes were contracted with anger and there was a
flush under the tan of the boyish face.

"Ah didn't git in this here army to be ordered around by a goddam
wop," he muttered.

"Doesn't matter much who you're ordered around by, you're ordered
around just the same," said Andrews. "Where d'ye come from,
buddy?"

"Oh, I come from New York. My folks are from Virginia," said
Andrews.

"Indiana's ma state. The tornado country.... Git to work; here's
that bastard wop comin' around the buildin'."

"Don't pick 'em up that-a-way; sweep 'em up," shouted the corporal.

Andrews and the Indiana boy went round with a broom and a shovel
collecting chewed-out quids of tobacco and cigar butts and stained
bits of paper.

"What's your name? Mahn's Chrisfield. Folks all call me Chris."

"Mine's Andrews, John Andrews."

"Ma dad uster have a hired man named Andy. Took sick an' died last