screen, at the tanned faces and the close-cropped heads that rose
above the mass of khaki-covered bodies about him. Here and there a
pair of eyes glinted in the white flickering light from the
screen. Waves of laughter or of little exclamations passed over
them. They were all so alike, they seemed at moments to be but one
organism. This was what he had sought when he had enlisted, he
said to himself. It was in this that he would take refuge from the
horror of the world that had fallen upon him. He was sick of
revolt, of thought, of carrying his individuality like a banner
above the turmoil. This was much better, to let everything go, to
stamp out his maddening desire for music, to humble himself into
the mud of common slavery. He was still tingling with sudden anger
from the officer's voice that morning: "Sergeant, who is this
man?" The officer had stared in his face, as a man might stare at
a piece of furniture.

"Ain't this some film?" Chrisfield turned to him with a smile that
drove his anger away in a pleasant feeling of comradeship.

"The part that's comin's fine. I seen it before out in Frisco,"
said the man on the other side of Andrews. "Gee, it makes ye hate
the Huns."

The man at the piano jingled elaborately in the intermission
between the two parts of the movie.

The Indiana boy leaned in front of John Andrews, putting an arm
round his shoulders, and talked to the other man.

"You from Frisco?"