"There's enough flour there," he continued reproachfully, pointing to
the huge mound of stuff in which I stood like a lost explorer on a
snow-capped mountain peak and wishing heartily that I was one,
"there's enough flour," he continued, "to keep a chief petty officer
in pie for twenty-four hours."
"Just about," thought I to myself.
"Well," he cried irritably, "pick it up. Be quick. Pick it up--all of
it!"
"Pick it up," I replied through a cloud of mist, "you can't pick up
flour. You can pick up apples and pears and cabbages and cigarette
butts for that matter, but you can't pick up flour."
The commissary steward suddenly handed me a piece of paper upon which
he had been writing frantically.
"Take this to your P.O.," he said shrilly, "and take yourself along
with it.
"A defect in the sack," I gasped, departing.
"And there's a defect in you," he shouted after me, "your brain is
exempted."
"Take this man and kill him if you can find any slight technical
excuse for it," the note ran, "and if you can't kill him, give him an
inaptitude discharge with my compliments, and if you are unable to do
either of these two things, at least keep him away from my outfit.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139