from Of Those We Loved: A Narrative 1914-1919 Remebered and Illustrated (The Overland Route, 1918) by I.L. (Dick) Read

That afternoon we halted on the outskirts of a fair-sized town. The cold drizzle still persisted, and on leaning out of the window to see what was happening, we saw on the tracks below an italian sentry up at the train in a listless, dejected attitude, back hunched, carbine slung, so that he could put both hands in his pockets. Raindrops glistened and dropped from his moustache onto his cape. Thinking to ask him the name of the town, I proffered a cigarette and addressed him in vile French. The cigarette he took with a gesture of appreciation and, spitting vigorously, left me bereft of further speech. 'Say, you guys,' he ejaculated, 'this is one goldarned shithouse of a country, ain't it?' All crowded the window to hear this American son of Italy voice his disgust with things in general until such time as the train started again. The town was Piacenza.