"Where's that?"

"I dunno. He's an Eyetalian."

"Say, how long does it take to git overseas?"

"Oh, a week or two," said Andrews.

"As long as that?" But the movie had begun again, unfolding scenes
of soldiers in spiked helmets marching into Belgian cities full of
little milk carts drawn by dogs and old women in peasant costume.
There were hisses and catcalls when a German flag was seen, and as
the troops were pictured advancing, bayonetting the civilians in
wide Dutch pants, the old women with starched caps, the soldiers
packed into the stuffy Y. M. C. A. hut shouted oaths at them.
Andrews felt blind hatred stirring like something that had a life
of its own in the young men about him. He was lost in it, carried
away in it, as in a stampede of wild cattle. The terror of it was
like ferocious hands clutching his throat. He glanced at the faces
round him. They were all intent and flushed, glinting with sweat
in the heat of the room.

As he was leaving the hut, pressed in a tight stream of soldiers
moving towards the door, Andrews heard a man say:

"I never raped a woman in my life, but by God, I'm going to. I'd
give a lot to rape some of those goddam German women."

"I hate 'em too," came another voice, "men, women, children and
unborn children. They're either jackasses or full of the lust for