The noise in the mess hall gradually subsided as time passed.
Most of the soldiers who had grabbed food first had eaten and drunk their fill. Some leaned back in their chairs, belching; others chatted in small groups, while a few had begun clearing their trays to return to the barracks.
The aroma of food still hung in the air, but the initial frenzy had faded, replaced by the languor and ease of full stomachs.
Johnny sat at a table in the corner, holding his sixth bottle of synthetic beer that evening.
Alcohol had flushed his cheeks slightly and left his eyes a little unfocused, but his hand still held the bottle steady as he poured one mouthful after another down his throat.
The synthetic beer hardly tasted good, with the bitterness of industrial fermentation and the cloying sweetness of chemical additives.
But for a soldier about to go into battle, having anything alcoholic to drink was good enough. No one cared how it tasted.
Dolly had already left.
His massive frame stood out so much in the mess hall that his departure caused a minor commotion.
A few drunken soldiers had tried to take him on. He had put them down one after another without breaking a sweat, then smiled good-naturedly amid the crowd's laughter, picked up his tray, and left the mess hall.
He had said he was going to evening prayers, a daily habit he never broke.
Oll Persson had stayed.
He ate and drank heartily alongside Johnny. Though he could hold his liquor far better than Johnny and showed no change in his expression after four or five bottles, he had no intention of stopping him.
He knew Johnny needed to let it out. None of them knew whether they would still be alive to come