John Passos: One Man's Initiation, 1917

“Yes, many a good copain of mine has had his poor feet in those boots. What of it? Some day another fellow will be making laces out of mine, eh?” He gave a wheezy, coughing laugh.

“I guess I’ll take a pair. How much are they?”

“Six sous.”

“Good.”

The coins glinted in the light of the candle as they clinked in the man’s leather-blackened palm.

“Good-bye,” said Martin. He walked past men sleeping in the bunks on either side as he went towards the steps.

At the end of the dugout the man crouched on his pile of old leather, with his knife that glinted in the candlelight dexterously carving laces out of the boots of those who no longer needed them.

There is no sound in the poste de secours. A faint greenish light filters down from the quiet woods outside. Martin is kneeling beside a stretcher where lies a mass of torn blue uniform crossed in several places by strips of white bandages clotted with dark blood. The massive face, grimed with mud, is very waxy and grey. The light hair hangs in clots about the forehead. The nose is sharp, but there is a faint smile about the lips made thin by pain.

“Is there anything I can get you?” asks Martin softly.

“Nothing.” Slowly the blue eyelids uncover hazel eyes that burn feverishly.

“But you haven’t told me yet, how’s Merrier?”

“A shell ... dead ... poor chap.”

“And the anarchist, Lully?”

“Dead.”

“And Dubois?”

“Why ask?” came the faint rustling voice peevishly. “Everybody’s dead. You’re dead, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m alive, and you. A little courage... We must be cheerful.”

“It’s not for long. To-morrow, the next day...” The blue eyelids slip back over the crazy burning eyes and the face takes on again the waxen look of death.