Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos

to him, this town of little houses faced with cracked stucco, where the damp made grey stains and green stains, of confused red-tiled roofs, and of narrow cobbled streets that zigzagged in and out among high walls overhung with balconies. At night, when it was dark except for where a lamp in a window spilt gold reflections out on the wet street or the light streamed out from a store or a café, it was almost frighteningly unreal. He walked down into the main square, where he could hear the fountain gurgling. In the middle he stopped indecisively, his coat unbuttoned, his hands pushed to the bottom of his trousers pockets, where they encountered nothing but the cloth. He listened a long time to the gurgling of the fountain and to the shunting of trains far away in the freight yards. “An’ this is the war,” he thought. “Ain’t it queer? It’s quieter than it was at home nights.” Down the street at the end of the square a band of white light appeared, the searchlight of a staff car. The two eyes of the car stared straight into his eyes, dazzling him, then veered off to one side and whizzed past, leaving a faint smell of petrol and a sound of voices. Fuselli watched the fronts of houses light up as the car made its way to the main road. Then the town was dark and silent again.
    He strolled across the square towards the Cheval Blanc, the large café where the officers went.
    “Button yer coat,” came a gruff voice. He saw a stiff tall figure at the edge of the curve. He made out the shape of the pistol holster that hung like a thin ham at the man’s thigh. An M.P. He buttoned his coat hurriedly and walked off with rapid steps.
    He stopped outside a café that had “Ham and Eggs” written in white paint on the window and looked in wistfully. Someone from behind him put two big hands over his eyes. He wriggled his head free.
    “Hello, Dan,” he said. “How did you get out of the jug?”
    “I’m a trusty, kid,” said Dan Cohen. “Got any dough?”
    “Not a damn cent!”
    “Me neither. … Come on in anyway,” said Cohen. “I’ll fix it up with Marie.” Fuselli followed doubtfully. He was a little afraid of Dan Cohen; he remembered how a man had been court-martialed last week for trying to bolt out of a café without paying for his drinks.
    He sat down at a table near the door. Dan had disappeared into the back room. Fuselli felt homesick. He was thinking how long it was since he had had a letter from Mabe. “I bet she’s got another feller,” he told himself savagely. He tried to remember how she looked, but he had to take out his watch and peep in the back before he could make out if her nose were straight or snub. He looked up, clicking the watch in his pocket. Marie of the white arms was coming laughing out of the inner room. Her large firm breasts, neatly held in by the close-fitting blouse, shook a little when she laughed. Her cheeks were very red and a strand of chestnut hair hung down along her neck. She picked it up hurriedly and caught it up with a hairpin, walking slowly into the middle of the room as she did so with her hands behind her head. Dan Cohen followed her into the room, a broad grin on his face.
    “All right, kid,” he said. “I told her you’ld pay when Uncle Sam came across. Ever had any Kümmel?”
    “What the hell’s that?”
    “You’ll see.”
    They sat down before a dish of fried eggs at the table in the corner, the favoured table, where Marie herself often sat and chatted, when wizened Madame did not have her eye upon her.
    Several men drew up their chairs. Wild Dan Cohen always had an audience.
    “Looks like there was going to be another offensive at Verdun,” said Dan Cohen. Someone answered vaguely.
    “Funny how little we know about what’s going on out there,” said one man. “I knew more about the war when I was home in Minneapolis than I do here.”
    “I guess we’re lightin’ into ’em all right,” said Fuselli in a patriotic voice.
    “Hell!