The line seemed never to move, and Roy thought how glad he would be when this standing in line was finished and done with. Yet move it did, inch by inch, slowly, steadily, always under the glare of those powerful lights from overhead. Although it took several hours, eventually he reached a group of soldiers headed by a non-com with a long sheet of paper in his hand. They were standing beside a desk, checking names. Suppose my name isn’t there! Suppose after all that someone has made a mistake! Suppose... Then the non-com with the paper shouted at the corporal opposite, who bawled back: “Tucker, Sergeant Roy, casual, six four one eight five three four. O.K.” That’s me! Tucker, Sergeant Roy, casual, six four one eight five three four. He slung the barracks bag, which got heavier every minute, onto his back again, and went up. It bumped the rail and hindered him as he mounted. His left hip ached terribly from the long period of standing in line, but he plugged along, up, up, up. Nothing mattered, nothing counted now.
