»What did you do in civil life, Jackson?» he asked.
»I was partners with my brother in a garage in Rawlins, Wyoming, sir.»
»Are you going back there?»
»My brother got killed in the Pacific and the guy who was running the garage was no good,» the driver said. »We lost what we had put in it.»
»That’s bad,» the Colonel said.
»You’re God-damned right it’s bad,» the driver said and added, »sir.»
The Colonel looked up the road.
He knew that if they kept on this road they would come, shortly, to the turn that he was waiting for; but he was impatient.
»Keep your eyes open and take a left hand turn on the road leading off this pike,» he told the driver.
»Do you think those low roads will be good with this big car, sir?»
»We’ll see,» the Colonel said. »Hell, man, it hasn’t rained in three weeks.»
»I don’t trust those side roads in this low country.»
»If we get stuck, I’ll haul you out with oxen.»
»I was only thinking about the car, sir.»
»Well, think about what I told you and turn off on the first left side road you see if it looks practicable.»
»That looks like one coming up, from the hedges,» the driver said.
»You’re all clear behind. Pull up just ahead of it and I’ll go over and have a look.»
He stepped out of the car and walked across the wide, hard-surfaced road and looked at the narrow dirt road, with the swift flowing canal beside it, and the thick hedge beyond. Beyond the hedge, he saw a low red farmhouse with a big barn. The road was dry. There were not even cart ruts sunk in it. He got back into the car.
»It’s a boulevard,» he said. »Quit worrying.»
»Yes, sir. It’s your car, sir.»
»I know,» the Colonel said. »I’m still paying for it. Say, Jackson, do you always suffer so much any time you go off a highway onto a secondary road?»
»No, sir. But there’s a lot of difference between a jeep, and a car as low hung as this. Do you know the clearance you have on your differential and your body frame on this?»
»I’ve got a shovel in the trunk and we’ve got chains. Wait till you see where we’re going after we leave Venice,»
»Do we go all the way in this car?»
»I don’t know. I’ll see.»
»Think about your fenders, sir.»
»We’ll cut the fenders off like the Indians do in Oklahoma. She’s over-fendered right now. She’s got too much of everything except engine. Jackson, that’s a real engine she’s got. One hundred and fifty ponies.»
»It certainly is, sir. It’s a great pleasure to drive that big engine on the good roads. That’s why I don’t want anything to happen to her.»
»That’s very good of you, Jackson. Now just quit suffering.»
»I’m not suffering, sir.»
»Good,» said the Colonel.
He was not, either, because just then he saw, beyond the line of close-bunched brown trees ahead, a sail moving along. It was a big red sail, raked sharply down from the peak, and it moved slowly behind the trees.
Why should it always move your heart to see a sail moving along through the country, the Colonel thought Why does it move my heart to see the great, slow, pale oxen? It must be the gait as well as the look of them and the size and the color.
But a good fine big mule, or a string of pack mules in good condition, moves me, too. So does a coyote every time I ever see one, and a wolf, gaited like no other animal, gray and sure of himself, carrying that heavy head and with the hostile eyes.
»Ever see any wolves out around Rawlins, Jackson?»
»No, sir. Wolves were gone before my time; they poisoned them out. Plenty coyotes, though.»
»Do you like coyotes?»
»I like to hear them nights.»
»So do I. Better than anything, except seeing a ship sailing along through the country.»
»There’s a boat doing that over there, sir.»
»On the Sile canal,» the Colonel told him. »She’s a sailing barge going to Venice. This wind is off the mountains now and she makes it along pretty good. It’s liable to turn really cold tonight if this wind holds and it ought to bring in plenty ducks. Turn to your left here and we’ll run along the canal. There’s a good road.»
»They didn’t have much duck shooting where I came from. But there was plenty of it in Nebraska along the Platte.»
»Do you want to shoot where we’re going?»
»I don’t believe so, sir. I’m not much of a shot, and I’d rather stay in that sack. It’s a Sunday morning, you know.»
»I know,» the Colonel said. »You can stay in the sack until noon if you want.»
»I brought my repellent. I ought to sleep O.K.»
»I’m not sure you’ll need it,» the Colonel said. »Did you bring any K-rations or Ten in One? They’re liable to eat Italian food, you know.»
»I brought a few cans to help out and a little stuff to give away.»
»That’s good,» the Colonel said.
He was looking ahead now to see where the canal road joined the main highway again. There he knew that he would see it on a clear day such as this was. Across the marshes, brown as those at the mouths of the Mississippi around Pilot Town are in winter, and with their reeds bent by the heavy north wind, he saw the squared tower of the church at Torcello and the high campanile of Burano beyond it. The sea was a slate blue and he could see the sails of twelve sailing barges running with the wind for Venice.
I’ll have to wait until we cross the Dese River above Noghera to see it perfectly, he thought. It is strange to remember how we fought back there along the canal that winter to defend it and we never saw it. Then one time, I was back as far as Noghera and it was clear and cold like today, and I saw it across the water. But I never got into it. It is my city, though, because I fought for it when I was a boy, and now that I am half a hundred years old, they know I fought for it and am a part owner and they treat me well.
Do you think that’s why they treat you well, he asked himself.
Maybe, he thought. Maybe they treat me well because I’m a chicken colonel on the winning side. I don’t believe it, though. I hope not, anyway. It is not France, he thought.
There you fight your way into a city that you love and are very careful about breaking anything and then, if you have good sense, you are careful not to go back because you will meet some military characters who will resent your having fought your way in. Vive la France et les pommes de terre frites. Liberté, Venalité, et Stupidité. The great clarté of the French military thinking. They haven’t had a military thinker since du Picq. He was a poor bloody Colonel, too. Mangin, Maginot and Gamelin. Take your choice, Gentlemen. Three schools of thought. One; I hit them on the nose. Two; I hide behind this thing which does not cover my left flank. Three; I hide my head in the sand like an ostrich, confident in the greatness of France as a military power and then take off.
Take off is putting it very cleanly and pleasantly. Sure, he thought, whenever you over-simplify you become unjust. Remember all the fine ones in the Resistance, remember Foch both fought and organized and remember how fine the people were. Remember your good friends and remember your deads. Remember plenty things and your best friends again and the finest people that you know. Don’t be a bitter nor a stupid. And what has that to do with soldiering as a trade? Cut it out, he told himself. You’re on a trip to have fun.
»Jackson,» he said, »are you happy?»
»Yes, sir.»
»Good. Shortly, we are coming to a view that I want you to see. You only have to take one look at it. The entire operation will be practically painless.»
I wonder what he’s riding me for now, the driver thought. Just because he was a B.G. once he knows everything. If he was any good as a B.G. why didn’t he hold it? He’s been beat up so much he’s slug-nutty.
»There’s the view, Jackson,» the Colonel said. »Stop her by the side of the road and we’ll take a look.»
The Colonel and the driver walked over to the Venice side of the road and looked across the lagoon that was whipped by the strong, cold wind from the mountains that sharpened all the outlines of buildings so that they were geometrically clear.
»That’s Torcello directly opposite us,» the Colonel pointed. »That’s where the people lived that were driven off the mainland by the Visigoths. They built that church
