![]() "We sleep tonight like a hotel," he says. Novak's prowling eyes discover a strawstack. "Be like a rabbit running a lettuce market."Īt dusk, we halt in a grove, with orders to dig in. "That guy claims to've been a bootlegger," snorts Kerrigan. Reeling through the mud, he sings, "Glory, glory, hallelujah, for I am marchin' on." His voice is about as musical as a crow's. To him all Germans, dead, living, or wounded, fall into one class: "Sonsabeeches." He hates them personally and passionately. They must have been scarce items in his former days. He has a great love for coffee and cigarettes, of which he can never get enough. He is a top-notch soldier, seldom complaining and fearing little. In his eyes is a strange, broken light which heightens the habitual sadness in his features. The long, hairy arms dangle like an ape's the hands are large and calloused. His knotted muscles bulge through his clothes. In his squat, gnarled body, one can see the record of toil. ![]() He grew up on a farm in Poland and has a feeling for land. ![]() He must be thinking of the season and harvest. When we pause on our marches, Novak gazes over the earth, sniffing strangely. The heat of summer has passed, and a sharpness is in the air. ![]()
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