"Sure," agreed the other. "She won't hurt you, though. I done tried it. My dog won't drink none of it of course, but then he got bad ways hanging around Brigade H.Q. He's the one trophy of the war I got: something that wasn't never bawled out by a shave-tail for not saluting. Say, would you kindly like to take a little something to keep off the sumniferous dews of this goddam country? The honor is all mine and you won't mind it much after the first two drinks. Makes me homesick: like a garage. Ever work in a garage?"
Sitting on the floor between two seats was Yaphank's traveling companion, trying to ignite a splayed and sodden cigar. Like devastated France, thought Cadet Lowe, swimming his memory through the adenoidal reminiscences of Captain Bleyth, an R.A.F. pilot delegated to temporarily re-inforce their democracy.
"Why, poor soldier," said his friend, tearfully, "all alone in no man's land and no matches. Ain't war hell? I ask you." He tried to push the other over with his leg, then he fell to kicking him, slowly. "Move over, you ancient mariner. Move over, you goddam bastard. Alas, poor Jerks or something (I seen that in a play, see? Good line) come on, come on; here's General Pershing come to have a drink with the poor soldiers." He addressed Cadet Lowe. "Look at him: ain't he sodden in depravity?"
"Battle of Coonyak," the man on the floor muttered. "Ten men killed. Maybe fifteen. Maybe hundred. Poor children at home saying 'Alice, where art thou?'"
"Yeh, Alice. Where in hell are you? That other bottle. What'n'ell have you done with it? Keeping it to swim in when you get home?"
The man on the floor weeping said: "You wrong me as ever man wronged. Accuse me of hiding mortgage on house? Then take this soul and body; take all. Ravish me, big boy."
