OCR Text |
Show Flying - 64 kettles, thinking of the combat comics he used to love. And now here I really am in the Army. A man. A man with a gun. A man with a mission. Follow me. I'll try, sir. For God and country. Sergeant Pierson and his fearless marines. Take that pill-box. Wipe out that machine-gun nest. Kick the yellow Japs in the balls. For God and country. At the head of the line, O'Connell, full tray delicately balanced in both hands, is turning away from the servers, passing by the back door on his way to a table, when the door opens and Biggs starts to come in, then, at the sight of O'Connell, stops, undecided. "Ah," says O'Connell, and drops the tray right at Biggs' feet. The metal tray hits the cement floor with a hell of a crash, the coffee mug breaks and the canned peach slides up against one of the lieutenant's shiny boots. O'Connell looks him right in the eye, trembling, hands shaking, and Biggs is the first to break. He throws a look all round the room as if for help, then turns and walks out, defeated. Victory his, O'Connell leaves by the other door, still pale, giving John Henry a pat on the shoulder as he walks by. Well done, baby. The enemy is ours. The day is won. But the day is warm and the smell is bad, and John Henry, without the benefit of finger or food or elaborate planning, leans over and vomits on the mess-hall floor, near the retreating feet of his comrades-in-arms. |