is a war I suppose we must attack.»
«Must attack. Shall attack!» The priest nodded.
«Leave him alone,» the major said. «He’s all right.»

«He can’t do anything about it anyway,» the captain said. We allgot up and left the table.

4

The battery in the next garden woke me in themorning and I saw the sun coming through the window and got out of the bed. Iwent to the window and lookedout. The gravel paths were moist and the grass was wet with dew. The battery fired twice and the air came each time like a blow and shook thewindow and made the front of my pajamas flap. I could not see the guns but they were evidently firingdirectly over us.It was a nuisance tohave them there but it was a comfort that they were no bigger. As I lookedout at the garden I heard a motor truck starting on the road. I dressed, went downstairs, had some coffee in the kitchen and went out to the garage.

Ten cars were lined up side by sideunder the long shed. They were top­heavy, blunt­nosed ambulances, painted gray and built like moving­vans. The mechanics were working on one out in the yard. Three others were up in the mountains at dressing stations.

«Do they ever shell that battery?» Tasked oneof the mechanics. «No, SignorTenente. It is protected by thelittle hill.»
«How’s everything?»
«Not so bad. This machine is no good but the others march.» He stopped working and smiled. «Were you onpermission?»
«Yes.»
He wiped his hands onhis jumper and grinned. «You have a good time?» The others all grinned too.
«Fine,»I said. «What’s the matter with this machine?» «It’s no good. One thing after another.»
«What’s the matter now?» «New rings.»

I left them working, the carlooking disgracedand empty with the engineopenand parts spread on the work bench, and went in under the shed and looked at each of the cars. They were moderately clean, a few freshly washed, the others dusty. I lookedat the tires carefully, lookingfor cuts or stone bruises. Everything seemed in good condition. It evidently made no difference whether I was there to look after things or not. I had imagined that the condition of the cars, whether ornot things were obtainable, the smooth functioning of thebusiness of removing wounded and sick from the dressing stations, hauling them back from the mountains to theclearing station and thendistributing them to the hospitals named on their papers, depended to a considerable extent on myself. Evidently it did not matter whether I was there or not.

«Has there been any trouble getting parts?» I asked the sergeant mechanic. «No, SignorTenente.»
«Where is the gasoline park now?»

«At the same place.»
«Good,» I said and went back to the house and drank another bowl of coffee at the mess table. The coffee was a pale gray and sweet with condensed milk. Outsidethe window it was a lovely spring morning. There was that beginning of a feeling of dryness in the nose that meant the day would be hot later on. That day I visited the posts in the mountains and was back in town late in the afternoon.

The whole thing seemed to run better while Iwas away. The offensive was going to start again I heard.The division for which we worked were to attack at a place up theriver and the major told me that I would see about the posts for during the attack. Theattack would cross the river up above the narrow gorge and spread up the hillside. The posts for the cars would haveto beas near the river as they could get and keep covered. They would, of course, be selected by the infantry but we were supposed to work it out.It was one of those things that gave you a false feeling of soldiering.

I was very dusty anddirty and went up to my room towash. Rinaldi was sitting on the bed with a copy of Hugo’s English grammar. He was dressed, wore his black boots, and his hair shone.
«Splendid,» he said when he saw me. «Youwill come with me to see Miss Barkley.» «No.
«Yes. You will please come and makeme a goodimpression on her.» «All right. Wait till I get cleaned up.»
«Wash up and come as you are.»
I washed, brushed my hair and we started.
«Wait a minute,» Rinaldi said. «Perhaps we should have a drink.» He opened his trunk and took out a bottle.
«Not Strega,» I said. «No. Grappa.»
«All right.»
He poured two glasses and we touched them, first fingers extended. The grappa was very strong.
«Another?»

«All right,» I said. We drank the secondgrappa, Rinaldiput away the bottle and we went down the stairs. It was hot walking through the town but the sun was starting to go down and it was very pleasant. The British hospital was a big villa built by Germans before the war. Miss Barkley was in the garden. Another nurse was with her. We saw their white uniforms through the trees and walked toward them. Rinaldi saluted. I saluted too but more moderately.

«How do you do?» Miss Barkley said. «You’re not an Italian, are you?» «Oh, no.»
Rinaldi was talking with the other nurse. They were laughing. «What an odd thing­­ to bein the Italianarmy.»
«It’s not really the army. It’s only the ambulance.» «It’s very oddthough.Why did you do it?»
«I don’t know,» I said. «There isn’t always an explanation for everything.» «Oh, isn’t there? I was brought upto think there was.»
«That’s awfully nice.»
«Do we have to go on and talk this way?»

«No,» I said.
«That’s a relief. Isn’t it?»
«What is the stick?» I asked. Miss Barkley was quite tall. She wore what seemed to me to be a nurse’s uniform, was blonde and had a tawny skin and gray eyes. I thought she was very beautiful. She was carrying a thin rattan stick like a toy riding­crop, bound in leather.
«It belonged toa boy who was killedlast year.» «I’m awfully sorry.»
«He was a very nice boy. He was going to marry me and he was killed in the Somme.»
«It was a ghastly show.» «Were youthere?» «No.»
«I’ve heard about it,» she said. «There’s not really any war of that sort down here. They sent me the little stick. His mother sent it to me. They returned it with his things.»
«Had you been engaged long?» «Eight years. We grew up together.» «And why didn’t you marry?»
«I don’t know,» she said. «I was a fool not to. I could have given him that anyway. But I thoughtit would be badfor him.»
«I see.»
«Have you everloved any one?» «No,» I said.
We sat down on a bench and I looked at her. «You have beautiful hair,» I said.
«Do you like it?» «Very much.»
«I was goingto cut it all off when he died.» «No.»
«I wanted to do something for him. You see I didn’t care about the other thing and he could have had it all. He could havehad anything he wantedif I would have known. I would have married him or anything. I know all about it now. But then he wanted togo to war and I didn’t know.»
I did not say anything.
«I didn’t know about anything then. I thoughtit would be worse for him. I thought perhaps he couldn’t stand it and then of course he was killed and that was the end of it.»
«I don’t know.»
«Oh, yes,» she said.»That’s the end ofit.» Welooked at Rinaldi talking with the other nurse. «What is her name?»
«Ferguson. Helen Ferguson. Your friend is a doctor, isn’t he?» «Yes. He’s very good.»
«That’s splendid. You rarely find any one any good this close to the front. This is closeto the front, isn’t it?»
«Quite.»

«It’s a silly front,» she said. «But it’s very beautiful. Are they going to have an offensive?»
«Yes.»
«Then we’ll have to work. There’s no work now.» «Have you done nursinglong?»
«Since the end of ‘fifteen. I started when he did. I remember having a silly idea he might come to the hospital where I was. With a sabre cut, I suppose, and abandage aroundhis head. Or shot throughthe shoulder. Somethingpicturesque.»
«This is the picturesque front,» I said.
«Yes,» she said. «People can’t realize what France is like. If they did, it couldn’t all go on. Hedidn’t have a sabre cut. They blew him all to bits.»
I didn’t say anything.
«Do you suppose it will always go on?» «No.»
«What’s to stop it?»
«It will crack somewhere.»
«We’ll crack. We’ll crack in France. They can’t go on doing things like the Somme and not crack.»
«They won’t crack here,» I said. «You think not?»
«No. They did very well last summer.»
«They may crack,» she said. «Anybody may crack.» «The Germans too.»
«No,» she said. «I think not.»
We went overtoward Rinaldi and Miss Ferguson.
«You love Italy?» Rinaldi asked Miss Ferguson in English. «Quite well.»
«No understand,» Rinaldi shook his head. «Abbastanzabene,» I translated.
He shook his head.
«That is not good. You love England?» «Not too well. I’m Scotch, you see.» Rinaldilooked at me blankly.
«She’s Scotch, so she loves Scotland better than England,» I said in Italian. «But Scotlandis England.»
I translated this for Miss Ferguson. «Pas encore,» said Miss Ferguson. «Not really?»
«Never. We do not like the English.»
«Not like the English? Not like Miss Barkley?»
«Oh, that’s different. You mustn’t take everything so literally.»
After a while we said good­night and left. Walkinghome Rinaldi said, «Miss Barkley prefers you to me. That is very clear. But the little Scotch oneis very nice.»
«Very,» I said. I had not noticed her. «Youlikeher?» «No,» said Rinaldi.

5

The next afternoonI went to call on Miss Barkley again. She was not in the garden and I went to the side door of the villa where the ambulances drove up. InsideI saw the head nurse, who said Miss Barkley was on duty­­»there’s a war on, you know.»
I said I knew.

«You’re the Americanin the Italian army?» she asked.