A Farewell To Arms, Ernest Hemingway


A FAREWELLTO ARMS

BOOK ONE
BOOK TWO
BOOK THREE
BOOK FOUR
BOOK FIVE


BOOK ONE

1

In thelate summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly movingand blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and theleaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and thedust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling andthe soldiers marchingand afterward theroad bare and white except for the leaves.

The plain was rich with crops; there were many orchards of fruit trees and beyond the plain the mountains were brown and bare. There was fighting in the mountains and at night we could see the flashes from the artillery. In the dark it was like summer lightning, but the nights were cool and there was not the feeling of a storm coming.

Sometimes in the dark we heard the troops marching underthe window and guns going past pulled by motor­tractors. There was much traffic at night and many mules on the roads with boxes of ammunition on each sideof their pack­saddles and gray motor trucks that carried men, and other trucks with loads covered with canvas that moved slowerin the traffic. There were big guns too that passed in theday drawn by tractors, the long barrels of the guns covered with green branches and greenleafy branches and vines laid over the tractors. To the north we couldlook across a valley and see a forest of chestnut trees and behind it another mountain on this sideof theriver. 

There was fighting for that mountain too, but it was not successful, andin the fall when the rains came the leaves all fell from the chestnut trees andthebranches were bare and the trunks black with rain.The vineyards were thin and bare­branched too and all the country wet and brown and dead with the autumn. There were mists over the river and clouds on the mountain and the trucks splashed mud on the road and the troops were muddy and wet in their capes; their rifles were wet and under their capes the two leather cartridge­boxes on the front of the belts, gray leatherboxes heavy with the packs of clips of thin, long 6.5 mm. cartridges, bulged forward under the capes so that the men, passing on theroad, marched as though they were sixmonths gone with child.

There were small gray motor cars that passed going very fast; usually there was an officer on the seat with the driver and more officers in theback seat. They splashed more mud than the camions even and if oneof theofficers in the back was very small and sitting between two generals, he himself so small that you could not seehis face but only the top of his cap and his narrow back, andif the car went especially fast it was probably the King. He livedin Udine and came out in this way nearly every day to seehow things were going, and things went very badly.

At the start of the winter came the permanent rain and with therain came the cholera. But it was checked and in the end only seven thousand died of it in the army. 

2


The next yearthere were many victories. Themountain that was beyondthe valley and thehillside where the chestnut forest grewwas captured and there were victories beyond the plain on the plateau to the south and we crossed theriverin August and lived in a housein Gorizia that had a fountain and many thick shady trees in a walled garden and a wistaria vine purple on the side of the house. Now the fighting was in thenext mountains beyond and was not a mile away. The town was very nice andourhouse was very fine. Theriverran behind us and the town had been captured very handsomely but the mountains beyond it could not be taken and I was very glad the Austrians seemed to want to come back to the town some time, if the war should end, because they did not bombard it to destroy it but only a little in a military way. 

People lived on in it and there were hospitals and cafés and artillery up sidestreets and two bawdy houses, one for troops and one forofficers, and with the end of the summer, the cool nights, the fightingin the mountains beyond the town, the shell­marked iron of the railway bridge, the smashed tunnel by the river where the fighting had been, the trees aroundthe square and the long avenue of trees thatled to the square; thesewith there being girls in thetown, the King passing in his motor car, sometimes now seeing his face and little long necked body and gray beard like a goat's chin tuft; all these with the suddeninteriors of houses that hadlost a wall through shelling, with plaster and rubble in theirgardens and sometimes in the street, and the whole thing going wellon theCarso made the fall very different from the last fall when we had beenin the country. The war was changed too.

The forest of oak trees onthe mountain beyond the town was gone. The forest had been green in the summerwhen we had come into thetown but now there were the stumps and the broken trunks and the groundtorn up, and one day at the end of the fall when I was out where the oak forest had been I saw a cloud coming over the mountain. It came very fast and the sun went a dull yellow and then everything was gray and the sky was covered and the cloud came on down themountain and suddenly we were in it and it was snow. The snow slanted across the wind, the bare ground was covered, the stumps of trees projected, there was snow on the guns and there were paths in the snow going back to the latrines behindtrenches.

Later, below in the town, I watched the snow falling, looking out of the window of the bawdy house, the house for officers, where I sat with a friend and two glasses drinking a bottle of Asti, and,looking out at the snow falling slowly and heavily, we knew it was all over for that year. Up the river the mountains had not been taken; none of the mountains beyond the river hadbeen taken. That was all left for next year. My friend saw the priest from ourmess goingby in the street, walkingcarefully in the slush, and pounded on the window to attract his attention. The priest looked up. He saw us and smiled. 

My friend motioned for him to come in. Thepriest shook his head and went on. That night in the mess after the spaghetti course, which every one ate very quickly and seriously, lifting the spaghetti on the fork until theloose strands hung clear then lowering it into the mouth, or else using a continuouslift and suckinginto the mouth, helpingourselves to wine from the grass­coveredgallon flask; it swung in a metal cradle and you pulled the neck ofthe flask down with the forefingerand the wine, clear red, tannic andlovely, poured out into the glass held with the same hand; after this course, the captain commenced picking on the priest.

The priest was young and blushed easily and wore a uniform like the rest of us but with a cross in dark red velvet above the left breast pocket of his gray tunic. The captain spoke pidgin Italian for my doubtful benefit, in orderthat I might understand perfectly, that nothing should belost.

"Priest to­day with girls," the captain said looking at the priest and at me. The priest smiled and blushed and shook his head. This captain baited him often.
"Not true?" asked the captain. "To­day I see priest with girls." "No," said the priest. The other officers were amused at the baiting.
"Priest not withgirls," went on the captain. "Priest never with girls," he explained to me. He took my glass and filledit, lookingat my eyes all the time, but not losing sight of the priest.

"Priest every night five against one." Every one at the table laughed. "You understand? Priestevery night five against one." He made a gesture and laughed loudly. The priest accepted it as a joke.
"The Pope wants the Austrians to win the war," the major said. "He loves Franz Joseph. That's where the money comes from. I am an atheist."
"Did you ever read the 'Black Pig'?"asked the lieutenant. "I will get you a copy. It was that which shook my faith."
"It is a filthy and vile book," said the priest. "You do not really like it."
"It is very valuable," said the lieutenant. "It tells you about thosepriests. You will like it," he said to me. I smiled at the priest and he smiledback across the candle­light. "Don't you read it," he said.

"I will getit for you," said the lieutenant.
"All thinking men are atheists," the major said. "I do not believein the Free Masons however."
"I believein the Free Masons," thelieutenant said. "It is a noble organization." Some one came in and as the door opened I could see the snow falling.
"There willbe no more offensive now that thesnow has come," I said.
"Certainly not," said the major. "You should go onleave. You should go to Rome, Naples, Sicily­­"
"He should visit Amalfi," said thelieutenant."Iwill write you cards to my family in Amalfi. They willlove youlike a son."
"He should go to Palermo." "He ought to go to Capri."
"I would like you to see Abruzzi and visit my family at Capracotta," said the priest. "Listen tohim talk about the Abruzzi. There's more snow there than here. He
doesn't want to see peasants. Let him go to centres of culture and civilization." "He should have finegirls. I will give you the addresses of places in Naples.
Beautiful young girls­­accompanied by their mothers. Ha! Ha! Ha!" The captain spread his hand open, the thumb up and fingers outspread as when you make shadow pictures. There was a shadow from his hand on the wall. He spoke again in pidgin Italian. "You go 

away like this," he pointed to the thumb, "andcome back like this," he touched the little finger. Every one laughed.
"Look," said the captain. He spread the handagain. Again the candle­light made its shadows on the wall. He started with theupright thumb and named in their order the thumb and four fingers, "soto­tenente(thethumb), tenente (first finger), capitano (next finger), maggiore (next to the little finger), and tenentecolonello (thelittle finger). You go away soto­tenente! You come back soto­colonello!" They alllaughed. The captain was having a great success with finger games. He looked at the priest and shouted, "Every night priest five against one!" They alllaughed again.

"You must go on leave at once," the major said.
"I would like togo with you and show you things," the lieutenant said. "When you come back bring a phonograph."
"Bring good opera disks." "Bring Caruso."
"Don't bring Caruso. He bellows."
"Don't you wish you could bellow like him?" "He bellows. I say he bellows!"
"I would like you to go to Abruzzi," thepriest said. Theothers were shouting. "There is good hunting. You would like thepeople and though it is cold it is clear and dry. You could stay with my family. My fatheris a famous hunter."
"Come on," said the captain. "We go whorehouse before it shuts." "Good­night," I said tothe priest.
"Good­night,"he said.

3


When I came back to the front we stilllived in that town. There were many more guns in the country around and the springhad come. The fields were green and there were small green shoots on the vines, the trees along the road had smallleaves and a breeze came from the sea. I saw the town with the hill and the old castle above it in a cup in the hills with the mountains beyond, brown mountains with a little green on their slopes. In the town there were more guns, there were some new hospitals, you met British men and sometimes women, on the street, and a fewmore houses had been hit by shell fire. 

Jt was warm and like the springand I walked down the alleyway of trees, warmed from the sun on the wall, andfound we still livedin the same house and that it alllooked the same as when I hadleft it. Thedoor was open, there was a soldier sitting on a bench outside in the sun, an ambulance was waiting by the side doorand inside the door, as I went in, there was the smellof marble floors and hospital. It was all as I had left it except that now it was spring. I lookedin the door of the big room and saw the major sitting at his desk, the window open and the sunlight coming into the room. He did not see me and I did not know whether to go in and report or go upstairs first and clean up. I decided to go on upstairs. 

The room I shared with the lieutenant Rinaldilooked out on the courtyard. The windowwas open, my bed was made up with blankets and my things hung on the wall, the gas mask in anoblong tin can, the steel helmet on the same peg. At the foot of the bed was my flat trunk, and my winter boots, the leather shiny with oil, were on the trunk. My Austrian sniper's rifle with its blued octagon barrel and thelovely dark walnut, cheek­ fitted, schutzen stock, hung over the two beds. The telescope that fitted it was, I remembered, locked in the trunk. Thelieutenant, Rinaldi, lay asleep onthe other bed. He wokewhen he heard me in theroom and sat up.

"Ciaou!" he said. "What kind of time did you have?" "Magnificent."
We shook hands and he put his arm aroundmy neck and kissed me. "Oughf," I said.
"You're dirty,"he said."You ought to wash. Where did you goand what did you do? Tell me everything at once."
"I went everywhere. Milan, Florence, Rome, Naples, Villa San Giovanni, Messina, Taormina­­"
"You talk like a time­table. Did you have any beautiful adventures?" "Yes."
"Where?"
"Milano,Firenze, Roma, Napoli­­"
"That's enough.Tell me really what was the best." "In Milano."
"That was because it was first. Where did youmeet her? In the Cova? Where did you go? How did you feel? Tell me everything at once. Did you stay allnight?"
"Yes."
"That's nothing. Here now we have beautiful girls. New girls never been to the front before."
"Wonderful."
"You don't believe me?We will gonow this afternoonand see. Andin the town we have beautiful English girls. I am now in lovewith Miss Barkley. I will take you to call. I will probably marry Miss Barkley."
"I have to get washed and report. Doesn't anybody work now?"
"Since you are gone we have nothing but frostbites, chilblains, jaundice, gonorrhea, self­inflicted wounds, pneumonia and hard and soft chancres. Every week some one gets wounded by rock fragments. There are a few real wounded. Next week the war starts again. Perhaps it start again. They say so. Do you think I would do right to marry Miss Barkley­­after the war of course?"
"Absolutely," I said andpoured the basin full of water.
"To­night you will tell me everything," said Rinaldi. "Now I must go back to sleep to be freshand beautiful for Miss Barkley."
I took off my tunic and shirt and washedin the cold water in the basin.While I rubbed myself witha towel I looked around the room and out the window and at Rinaldi lying with his eyes closed on the bed. He was good­looking, was my age, and he came from Amalfi. He loved being a surgeon and we were great friends. While I was looking at him he opened his eyes.
"Have you any money?" 

"Yes."
"Loan me fifty lire."
I dried my hands and took out my pocket­book from the insideof my tunic hanging on the wall. Rinalditook the note, folded it without risingfrom the bed and slid it in his breeches pocket. He smiled, "I must make on Miss Barkley the impression of a man of sufficient wealth. You are my great and good friend and financialprotector."
"Go to hell," I said.

That night at the mess I sat next to the priest and he was disappointed and suddenly hurt that I had not gone to the Abruzzi. He had written tohis father that I was coming and they had made preparations. I myself felt as badly as hedid and could not understand why I had not gone. It was what I had wanted to do and Itried to explain how one thinghad led to anotherand finally he saw it and understood that I hadreally wanted to go and it was almost all right. I had drunk much wine and afterward coffee and Strega and I explained, winefully, how we did not do the things we wanted to do; we never did such things.

We two were talking while the others argued. I had wanted to go to Abruzzi. I had gone tono place where the roads were frozen and hard as iron, where it was clear cold and dry and the snow was dry and powdery and hare­tracks in the snow and the peasants took off their hats and called youLord and there was good hunting. I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafés and nights when the roomwhirled and you needed tolook at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was allthere was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unrealin the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caringin the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring. 

Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it sometimes morning and all that hadbeen there gone and everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day starting and then another night. I triedto tell about the night and the difference between the night andthe day and how the night was betterunless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tellit; as I cannot tellit now. 

But if you have had it you know. He had not hadit but he understood that I had really wanted to go tothe Abruzzi but had not gone and we were still friends, with many tastes alike, but with the difference between us. He had always known what I did not know and what, when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that then, although I learnedit later. Inthe meantime we were all at the mess, the meal was finished, and the argument went on. We two stopped talkingand the captain shouted,"Priest not happy. Priest not happy without girls."

"I am happy," said thepriest.
"Priest not happy. Priest wants Austrians to win the war," the captain said. The others listened. The priest shook his head.
"No," he said.
"Priest wants us neverto attack. Don't you want us never to attack?" "No. If there 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. "Yes, ma'am."
"How did you happen to dothat? Why didn't you join up with us?" "I don't know," I said. "Could I join now?"
"I'm afraid not now. Tell me. Why did you join up with the Italians?" "I was in Italy," I said,"and I spoke Italian."
"Oh," she said. "I'm learning it. It's beautifullanguage." "Somebody said you should be able to learn it in two weeks."
"Oh, I'll notlearn it in two weeks. I've studied it for months now. You may come and see herafter seven o'clock if you wish. She'llbe off then. But don't bring a lot of Italians."
"Not even for the beautifullanguage?" "No. Nor for the beautiful uniforms." "Good evening,"I said.
"A rivederci, Tenente."

"A rivederla." I saluted and went out. It was impossible to salute foreigners as an Italian, without embarrassment. The Italian salute never seemedmade for export.
The day had been hot. I had been up the river to the bridgehead at Plava. It was there that the offensive was to begin. It had been impossible to advance on the far side the yearbefore because there was only one road leading down from the pass to the pontoonbridge andit was under machine­gun and shell fire for nearly a mile. It was not wide enough either to carry all the transport for an offensive and the Austrians could make a shambles out of it. But theItalians had crossed and spread out alittle way on the far sideto hold about a mile and a half on the Austrian side of the river. It was a nasty place and the Austrians should not have let them hold it. 

I suppose it was mutual tolerance because the Austrians still kept a bridgehead further down the river. The Austriantrenches were above on the hillside only a few yards from the Italian lines. There had been a little town but it was all rubble. There was what was left of a railway station anda smashed permanent bridge that could not be repairedand used becauseit was in plain sight.

I went along the narrow road down toward the river, left the car at the dressing station under the hill, crossed the pontoon bridge, which was protected by a shoulder of the mountain, and went through the trenches in the smashed­down town and along the edge of the slope. Everybody was in the dugouts. There were racks of rockets standing to be touched off to call for help from the artillery or to signal with if the telephone wires were cut. It was quiet, hot and dirty. I looked across the wire at the Austrian lines. Nobody was in sight. I had a drink with a captain that I knew in one of the dugouts and went back across the bridge. 

A newwide road was being finished that would go over the mountain and zig­zag down to the bridge.When this road was finished the offensive would start. It came down through the forestin sharp turns. The systemwas to bring everything down the new road and take the empty trucks, carts and loaded ambulances and all returning traffic up the old narrow road.Thedressing station was on the Austrian side of the river under the edge of the hill and stretcher­bearers would bring thewounded back across the pontoon bridge. It would be the same when the offensive started. As far as I could make out the last mile or so of thenew road where it started to level out would be able to be shelled steadily by the Austrians. 

Itlooked as though it might be a mess. But I found a place where the cars would be shelteredafter they passed that last badlooking bit and could wait for the wounded to be brought across the pontoon bridge. I would have liked to drive over the new road but it was not yet finished. It lookedwide and well made with a good grade and the turns looked very impressive where you could see them through openings in the forest on the mountain side. The cars would be all right with their good metal­to­metal brakes and anyway, coming down, they would not beloaded. I droveback upthe narrow road.

Two carabinieri held the car up. A shell had fallen and while we waited three others fell up the road.They were seventy­sevens and came with a whishingrush of air, a hard bright burst and flash and then gray smoke that blew across theroad. The carabinieri waved us to go on. Passing where the shellshad landed I avoided the small broken places and smelled the highexplosive and the smell of blasted clay and stone and freshly shattered flint. Idroveback to Gorizia and our villa and, as I said, went to call on Miss Barkley, who was on duty.

At dinner I ate very quickly and left for the villa where the British had theirhospital. It was really very large and beautiful and there were fine trees in the grounds. Miss Barkley was sitting on a benchin the garden. Miss Ferguson was with her. They seemed glad to see me and in a little while Miss Ferguson excused herself and went away.

"I'llleave you two," she said. "You get along very well without me." "Don't go, Helen," Miss Barkley said.
"I'd really rather. I mustwrite some letters." "Good­night," I said.
"Good­night, Mr. Henry."
"Don't write anything that will bother the censor."
"Don't worry. Ionly write about what a beautiful place we live in and how bravethe Italians are."
"That way you'll be decorated."
"That will be nice. Good­night, Catherine."
"I'll see you in a little while," Miss Barkley said. Miss Ferguson walked away in the dark.
"She's nice," I said.
"Oh, yes, she's very nice. She's a nurse." "Aren't you a nurse?"
"Oh, no. I'm something calleda V. A. D. We work very hard but no one trusts us." "Why not?"
"They don't trustus when there's nothing going on. When there is really work they trust us."
"What is the difference?" 

"A nurse is like a doctor. It takes along time to be. A V. A. D. is a short cut." "I see."
"The Italians didn't want women so near the front. So we're all on very special behavior. We don't go out."
"I can come here though." "Oh, yes.We're not cloistered." "Let's drop the war."
"It's very hard. There's noplace to dropit." "Let's dropit anyway."
"All right."
Welooked at each otherin the dark. I thought she was very beautiful and I took her hand. She let me take it and I held it and put my arm around under her arm.
"No," she said. I kept my armwhere it was. "Why not?"
"No."
"Yes," I said."Please." I leaned forward in the dark to kiss her and there was a sharp stinging flash. She had slapped my face hard. Her hand hadhit my nose and eyes, and tears came in my eyes from the reflex.
"I'm so sorry," she said. I felt I had a certain advantage. "You were quite right."
"I'm dreadfully sorry," she said. "I just couldn't stand thenurse's­eveningoff aspect of it. I didn't mean to hurt you. I did hurt you, didn't I?"
She was looking at me in the dark. I was angry and yet certain, seeingit allahead like the moves in a chess game.
"You did exactly right," I said. "I don't mind atall." "Poor man."
"You see I've been leading a sort of a funny life. And I never even talk English. And then you are so very beautiful." I looked at her.
"You don't need to say a lot of nonsense. I said I was sorry. We doget along." "Yes," I said."And we have gotten away fromthe war."
She laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard herlaugh. I watched her face. "You are sweet," she said.
"No, I'm not."
"Yes. You are a dear. I'd be glad to kiss you if you don't mind."

I looked in her eyes and put my arm around her as I had before and kissedher. I kissedher hard and held hertight and tried to open herlips; they were closed tight. I was still angry and as I held her suddenly she shivered. I held her close against me and could feel herheart beating and herlips opened and her head went back against my hand and then she was crying on my shoulder.

"Oh, darling," she said. "You willbe good to me, won't you?"
What the hell, I thought. I stroked herhair and patted her shoulder. She was crying. "You will, won't you?" Shelooked up at me. "Because we're going to have a
strangelife."
After a while I walked with her to the door of the villa and she went in and I walked home. Back at the villa I went upstairs to the room. Rinaldi was lying on his bed. He looked at me. 

"So you make progress with Miss Barkley?" "We are friends."
"You have that pleasant airof a dogin heat." I did not understand the word.
"Of a what?" He explained.
"You," I said, "have that pleasant air of a dog who­­"
"Stop it," he said. "In a little while we would say insulting things." He laughed. "Good­night," I said.
"Good­night, little puppy."
I knocked over his candle with the pillow and got into bedin the dark. Rinaldi picked up the candle,lit it and went on reading.

6

I was away for two days at the posts.When Igot home it was toolate and I did not see Miss Barkley until the next evening. She was not in the garden and I had to wait in the office of the hospitaluntil she came down. There were many marble busts on painted wooden pillars along the walls of the room they used for an office. The hall too, that the office opened on, was lined with them. They had the complete marble quality of alllooking alike. Sculpture had always seemed a dull business­­still, bronzes looked like something. But marble busts alllookedlike a cemetery. There was one fine cemetery though­­theone at Pisa.Genoa was the place to see thebad marbles. This had been the villa of a very wealthy German and the busts must have cost him plenty. I wondered who had done them and howmuch he got. I tried to make out whether they were members of the family or what; but they were all uniformly classical. You could not tell anything about them.

I sat on a chair and held my cap. We were supposed to wear steel helmets even in Gorizia but they were uncomfortable and toobloody theatricalin a town where the civilian inhabitants had not been evacuated. I wore one when we went up to theposts and carried an English gas mask.We were just beginningto get some of them. They were a real mask.Also we were required to wear an automatic pistol; even doctors and sanitary officers. I felt it against theback of the chair. You were liable to arrest if you did not have one worn in plain sight. Rinaldi carrieda holster stuffed with toilet paper. 

I wore a real one and felt like a gunman until I practised firing it. It was an Astra 7.65 caliber with a short barrel andit jumped so sharply when you let it off that there was no questionof hitting anything. Ipractised with it, holding below the target and trying to master the jerk of the ridiculous short barrel until I could hit within ayard of where Iaimed at twenty paces and then theridiculousness of carryinga pistol at all came over me and I soon forgot it and carriedit floppingagainst the smallof my back with no feeling at all except a vague sort of shame when I met English­speaking people. I sat now in the chairand an orderly of some sort looked at me disapprovingly from behinda desk while Ilooked at the marble floor, the pillars with the marble busts, and the frescoes on the wall and waited for Miss Barkley. 

The frescoes were not bad. Any frescoes were good when they started to peel and flake off.
I saw Catherine Barkley coming down the hall, and stood up. She did not seem tall walking toward me but she looked very lovely.
"Good­evening, Mr. Henry," she said.
"How do you do?" I said. The orderly was listening behind the desk. "Shall we sit here or go out in the garden?"
"Let's go out. It's much cooler."
I walked behind her out into the garden, theorderly lookingafter us.When we were out on the gravel drive she said, "Where have you been?"
"I've been out on post."
"You couldn't have sent me a note?"
"No," I said. "Not very well. I thought I was coming back." "You ought to have let me know, darling."
We were off the driveway, walkingunder the trees. I took her hands, then stopped and kissed her.
"Isn't there anywhere we can go?"
"No," she said. "We have to just walk here. You've been away a long time." "This is the third day. But I'm back now."
She looked at me, "And you do love me?" "Yes."
"You did say you loved me, didn't you?"
"Yes," I lied. "I love you." I had not said it before. "And you call me Catherine?"
"Catherine."

We walked on a way and were stopped under a tree. "Say, 'I've come back to Catherine in the night." "I've come back to Catherinein the night."
"Oh, darling, youhave come back, haven't you?" "Yes."
"I love you so and it's been awful. You won't go away?" "No. I'll always come back."
"Oh, I love you so. Please put your hand there again."
"It's not been away." I turned her so I could see her face when I kissed her and I saw that her eyes were shut. I kissedboth her shut eyes. I thought she was probably a little crazy. It was all right if she was. I did not care what I was getting into. This was better than going every eveningto thehousefor officers where the girls climbed all over you and put your cap on backward as a sign of affection between their trips upstairs with brother officers. I knew I did not love Catherine Barkley nor had any idea of loving her. This was a game, like bridge, in which you said things instead of playing cards. Like bridge you had to pretend you were playing for money or playing for some stakes. Nobody had mentioned what the stakes were. It was allright with me.
"I wish there was some place we could go," I said. I was experiencing the masculine difficulty of makinglove very long standing up.
"There isn't any place," she said. She came back fromwherever shehad been. "We might sit there just for a little while." 

We sat on the flat stone bench and I held Catherine Barkley's hand. She would not let me put my arm around her.
"Are you very tired?" she asked. "No."
She looked down at the grass.
"This is arotten game we play, isn't it?" "What game?"
"Don't be dull."
"I'm not, on purpose."
"You're a nice boy," she said. "And you play it as well as you know how. But it's a rotten game."
"Do you always know what people think?"
"Not always. But I do with you. You don't have to pretend you love me. That's over for the evening. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"
"But I do love you."
"Please let's notlie when we don't have to. I had a very finelittle show and I'm all right now. You see I'm not mad and I'm not gone off. It's only a little sometimes."
I pressed herhand, "Dear Catherine."
"It sounds very funny now­­Catherine. You don't pronounce it very much alike. But you're very nice. You're a very good boy."
"That's what the priest said."
"Yes, you're very good. And you will come and see me?" "Of course."
"And you don't have to say you love me. That's all over for a while." She stood up and putout her hand. "Good­night."
I wanted to kiss her.
"No," she said. "I'm awfully tired." "Kiss me, though," I said.
"I'm awfully tired, darling." "Kiss me."
"Do you want to very much?" "Yes."
We kissed and she broke away suddenly. "No. Good­night, please, darling."We walked to the door and I saw her goin and down the hall. I liked to watch her move. She went on down the hall. I went on home. It was a hot night and there was a good deal going on upin the mountains. I watched the flashes on San Gabriele.
I stoppedin front of the Villa Rossa. The shutters were up but it was still going on inside. Somebody was singing. I went on home. Rinaldi came in while I was undressing.
"Ah, ha!" he said. "It does not go so well. Baby is puzzled." "Where have you been?"
"At the Villa Rossa. It was very edifying, baby.We all sang. Where have you been?"
"Calling on the British."
"Thank God I did not become involved with the British." 

7

I came back the next afternoon from our first mountain post and stopped the car at the smistimento where the wounded and sickwere sorted by their papers and the papers marked for the different hospitals. I had been driving and I sat in the car and the driver took the papers in. It was a hot day andthe sky was very bright and blueand the road was white and dusty. I sat in the high seat of the Fiat and thought about nothing. A regiment went by in the road and I watched them pass. The men were hot and sweating. Some wore their steel helmets but most of them carriedthem slung from their packs. Most of the helmets were too big and came down almost over the ears of the men who wore them. The officers all wore helmets; better­fitting helmets. It was half of the brigata Basilicata. I identified them by their red and white striped collar mark. There were stragglers goingby long after the regiment had passed­­men whocould not keep up with theirplatoons. They were sweaty, dusty and tired. Some looked pretty bad. A soldier came along after the last of the stragglers. He was walking with a limp. He stoppedand sat down beside the road. I got down and went over.

"What's the matter?"
He looked at me, then stood up. "I'm going on."
"What's the trouble?" "­­ the war."
"What's wrong with yourleg?" "It's not my leg. I gota rupture."
"Why don't you ride with the transport?" I asked. "Why don't you go tothe hospital?" "They won't let me. The lieutenant said I slipped the truss on purpose."
"Let me feelit." "It's way out."
"Which side is it on?" "Here."
I felt it. "Cough," I said.
"I'm afraid it will make it bigger. It's twice as big as it was this morning."
"Sit down," I said. "As soon as I get the papers on these wounded I'll take you along the road and drop you with your medical officers."
"He'll say I did it on purpose."
"They can't do anything," I said. "It's not a wound. You've had it before, haven't you?"
"But I lost the truss."
"They'll send you to ahospital." "Can't I stay here, Tenente?" "No, I haven't any papers for you."
The driver came out of the door with thepapers for the woundedin the car. "Four for105.Two for 132," he said. They were hospitals beyond the river. 

"You drive," I said. I helped the soldier with the rupture up on the seat with us. "You speak English?" he asked.
"Sure."
"How you like this goddamwar?" "Rotten."
"I say it's rotten. Jesus Christ, I say it's rotten." "Were youin the States?"
"Sure. In Pittsburgh. I knew you was an American." "Don't Italk Italiangoodenough?"
"I knew you was an American allright."
"Another American," said the driverin Italian looking at the hernia man. "Listen, lootenant. Do you have totake me to that regiment?"
"Yes."
"Because the captain doctor knew I had this rupture. I threw away the goddam truss soit would getbad and I wouldn't have to go to theline again."
"I see."
"Couldn't you take me no placeelse?"
"If it was closer to the front I could take you to a first medical post. But back here you've got to have papers."
"If I goback they'll makeme get operated onand then they'llput me in theline all the time."
I thought it over.
"You wouldn't want to goin theline all the time, would you?" heasked. "No."
"Jesus Christ, ain't this a goddamwar?"
"Listen," I said. "Youget out andfall down by the road and get a bump on your head and I'll pick you up on our way back and take you to a hospital. We'll stop by the road here, Aldo." We stopped at the sideof the road. I helped him down.

"I'll beright here,lieutenant," he said.
"So long," I said. We went on and passed theregiment about a mile ahead, then crossed the river, cloudy with snow­water and runningfast through the spiles of the bridge, to ridealong the road across theplain and deliver the woundedat the two hospitals. I drove coming back and went fast with the empty car to find the man from Pittsburgh. First we passed the regiment, hotter and slower than ever: then the stragglers. Then we saw a horse ambulance stopped by the road. Two menwere lifting the hernia man to put him in. They had come back for him. He shook his head at me. His helmet was off and his forehead was bleedingbelow the hair line. His nose was skinned and there was dust on the bloody patch and dust in his hair.
"Look at the bump, lieutenant!" he shouted. "Nothing to do. They come back for me."

When I got back to the villa it was five o'clock and I went out where we washed the cars, to take a shower. Then I made out my report in my room, sittingin my trousers and an undershirt in front of the open window. In two days the offensive was to start and I would go with the cars to Plava. It was alongtime since I had written to the States and I knew I should write but I had let it go so long that it was almost impossible to write now. There was nothing to write about. I sent a couple of army Zona di Guerra post­cards, 

crossing out everything except, I am well. That should handle them. Those post­cards would be very finein America; strange and mysterious. This was a strange and mysterious war zone but I supposedit was quite wellrun and grim compared to other wars with the Austrians. The Austrianarmy was created to give Napoleon victories; any Napoleon. I wished we had a Napoleon, but instead we had Ii Generale Cadorna, fat and prosperous and Vittorio Emmanuele, the tiny manwith thelong thin neck and the goat beard. Over on the right they hadthe Dukeof Aosta. Maybe he was too good­looking to be a. great generalbut he lookedlike a man. Lots of themwould havelikedhim to be king. He looked like a king. He was the King's uncle and commanded the third army. We were in the second army. 

There were some British batteries up with the third army. I had met two gunners from that lot, in Milan. They were very nice and we had a big evening. They were big and shy and embarrassed andvery appreciative together of anythingthat happened. I wish that I was with the British. It would have been much simpler. Still I would probably have been killed. Not in this ambulance business. Yes, evenin the ambulance business. British ambulance drivers were killed sometimes. Well, I knew I would not be killed. Not in this war. It did not have anything to do with me. It seemed nomore dangerous to me myself than warin the movies. I wished to Godit was over though. Maybe it would finish this summer. Maybe the Austrians would crack. They had always cracked in other wars. What was the matter with this war? Everybody said theFrench were through. Rinaldi said that theFrench had mutiniedand troops marched on Paris. I asked himwhat happened and he said, "Oh, they stopped them." I wanted to go to Austria without war. I wanted to goto the Black Forest. I wanted to go to the Hartz Mountains.

Where were the Hartz Mountains anyway? They were fightingin the Carpathians. I did not want to gothere anyway. It might be good though. I could go to Spain if there was no war. The sun was going down and the day was cooling off. After supper I would go and see Catherine Barkley. I wish she were here now. I wished I were in Milan with her. I would like to eat at the Cova and then walk down the Via Manzoni in the hot evening and cross over and turn off along the canal and go to the hotel with Catherine Barkley. 

Maybe she would. Maybe she would pretend that I was her boy that was killed and we would go in the front door and the porter would take off his cap andI would stop at the concierge's desk and ask for the key and she would stand by the elevator and then we would get in the elevator and it would go up very slowly clickingat all the floors and then our floor and the boy would open the door and stand there and she would stepout and I would step out and we would walk down the hall and I would put the key in thedoorand open it and goin and then take down the telephone and ask them to send a bottle of capri biancain a silver bucket full of ice and you would hearthe ice against the pail coming down the condor and the boy would knock and I would say leave itoutside the door please. 

Because we would not wear any clothes because it was so hot and the window open and the swallows flying over the roofs of the houses and when it was dark afterward and you went to the window very small bats hunting over the houses and closedown over the trees and we would drink the capri and the doorlocked and it hotand only a sheet and the whole night and we would bothlove each other all night in the hot night in Milan. That was how it ought to be. I would eat quickly and go and see Catherine Barkley.
They talked too much at the mess and I drank wine because tonight we were not all brothers unless I drank a little and talked with the priest about Archbishop Ireland who was, it seemed, a noble man and with whose injustice, theinjustices he had received and 

in which I participated as an American, and ofwhich I had never heard, I feigned acquaintance. It would havebeenimpolite not to have known something of them when I had listened to such a splendid explanation of their causes which were, after all, it seemed, misunderstandings. I thought he had a fine name and he came from Minnesota which made a lovely name: Ireland of Minnesota, Ireland of Wisconsin, Ireland of Michigan. What made it pretty was that it sounded like Island. No that wasn't it. There was more to it than that. Yes, father. That is true, father. Perhaps, father. No, father. Well, maybe yes, father. You know more about it than I do, father. The priest was good but dull. The officers were not good but dull. The Kingwas good but dull. The wine was bad but not dull. It took the enamel off your teethand left it on theroof of your mouth.

"And the priest was locked up," Rocca said,"because they found the threeper cent bonds on his person. It was in France of course. Here they would neverhave arrested him. He denied all knowledge of the five per cent bonds. This took place at Béziers. I was there and reading of it in the paper, went to the jail and asked to see the priest. It was quite evident he had stolen the bonds."

"I don't believea word of this," Rinaldi said.
"Just as you like," Rocca said. "But I am telling it for our priest here. It is very informative. He is a priest; he willappreciate it."
The priest smiled. "Go on," he said. "I am listening."

"Of course some of the bonds were not accounted for but the priest hadallof the three per cent bonds and severallocalobligations, I forget exactly what they were. So I went to the jail, now this is the point of the story, and I stood outside his cell and I said as though I were going to confession, 'Bless me, father, for you have sinned."
There was great laughter from everybody.

"And what did he say?" asked the priest. Rocca ignored this and went on to explain the joke to me. "You see the point, don't you?" It seemed it was a very funny joke if you understoodit properly. They poured me more wine and I told the story about the English private soldier who was placed under the shower bath. Then the major told the story of the eleven Czecho­slovaks and the Hungarian corporal. After some more wine I told the story of the jockey who found thepenny. The major said there was an Italian story something like that about the duchess who could not sleep at night. At this point the priest leftand I told the story about the travelling salesman who arrived at five o'clock in the morning at Marseilles when the mistral was blowing. 

Themajor said he had heard areport that I could drink. I denied this. He saidit was true and by the corpseof Bacchus we would test whether it was true or not. Not Bacchus, I said. Not Baëchus. Yes, Bacchus, he said. I should drink cup for cup and glass for glass with Bassi, Fillipo Vincenza. Bassi said no that was no test because he had already drunk twice as much as I. I said that was a foul lie and, Bacchus or no Bacchus, Fillipo Vincenza Bassior Bassi Fillippo Vicenza had never touched a drop all evening and what was his name anyway? He said was my name Frederico Enrico or Enrico Federico? I said let the best man win, Bacchus barred, and the major started us with red winein mugs. Half­way through the wine I did not want any more. I remembered where I was going.

"Bassi wins," I said."He's a better man than I am. I have to go."
"He does really," said Rinaldi. "He has a rendezvous. I know all about it." "I have to go." 

"Another night," said Bassi. "Another night when you feel stronger." He slapped me on the shoulder. There were lighted candles on the table. All the officers were very happy. "Good­night, gentlemen," I said.
Rinaldi went out with me. We stoodoutside the dooron the patch and hesaid, "You better not go up there drunk."
"I'm not drunk, Rinin. Really." "You'd better chew some coffee." "Nonsense."
"I'll get some, baby. You walk up and down."He came back with a handful of roasted coffee beans."Chew those, baby, and God be with you."
"Bacchus," I said.
"I'll walk down with you." "I'm perfectly all right."
We walked along together through the town and I chewed the coffee. At the gateof the driveway that led up to the British villa, Rinaldi said good­night.
"Good­night," I said. "Why don't you come in?"
He shook his head. "No," he said. "Ilike the simpler pleasures." "Thank you for the coffee beans."
"Nothing, baby. Nothing."
J started down the driveway. The outlines of the cypresses that lined it were sharp and clear. I looked back and saw Rinaldi standing watching me and waved to him.
I sat in the reception hail of the villa, waiting for Catherine Barkley to come down. Some one was coming down the hallway. I stood up, but it was not Catherine. It was Miss Ferguson.
"Hello," she said. "Catherineasked me to tellyou she was sorry she couldn't see you this evening."
"I'm so sorry. I hope she's not ill." "She's notawfully well."
"Will you tell herhow sorry I am?" "Yes, I will."
"Do you think it would be any good totry and see her tomorrow?" "Yes, I do."
"Thank you very much," I said. "Good­night."
I went out the door and suddenly I felt lonely and empty. I had treated seeing Catherine very lightly, I hadgotten somewhat drunk and hadnearly forgotten to come but when I could not see herthere I was feeling lonely and hollow.

8


The next afternoon we heard there was to be an attack up theriver that night and that we were to take four cars there. Nobody knew anything about it although they all spoke with great positiveness and strategicalknowledge. I was ridingin the first car and 

as we passed the entry tothe British hospital I told the driver to stop. Theother cars pulled up. I got out and told the driver togo onand that if we had not caught up to them at the junction of the road to Cormons to wait there.I hurried up the driveway andinside the receptionhall I asked for Miss Barkley.

"She's on duty."
"Could I seeher just fora moment?"
They sent an orderly to seeand she came back with him.
"I stopped to ask if you were better. They told me you were on duty, so I askedto see you."
"I'm quite well," she said,"I think the heat knocked me over yesterday." "I have to go."
"I'll just step out the door a minute." "And you're all right?" I asked outside. "Yes, darling. Are you coming to­night?"
"No. I'm leaving now for a show up above Plava." "A show?"
"I don't think it's anything." "And you'll be back?" "To­morrow."
She was unclasping something from her neck. She put it in my hand. "It's a Saint Anthony," she said. "And come to­morrow night."
"You're not a Catholic, are you?"

"No. But they say a Saint Anthony's very useful." "I'll take care of him for you. Good­by."
"No," she said, "not good­by." "All right."

"Be a good boy and be careful. No, you can't kiss me here. You can't." "All right."
I looked back and saw her standingon the steps. She waved and I kissed my hand and held it out. She waved again and then I was out of the driveway and climbing up into the seat of the ambulance and we started. The Saint Anthony was in a little white metal capsule. I opened the capsule and spilled him out into my hand.
"Saint Anthony?" asked the driver. "Yes."

"I have one." His right handleft the wheeland openeda button onhis tunic and pulled it out from under his shirt.
"See?"

I put my Saint Anthony back in the capsule, spilled the thin gold chain togetherand put it allin my breast pocket.
"You don't wear him?" "No."
"It's better to wear him. That's what it's for."

"All right," I said. I undid the clasp of the gold chain and put it around my neck and clasped it. The saint hung down on the Outside of my uniform and I undid the throat of my tunic, unbuttoned the shirt collarand dropped him in under the shirt. I felt him in his metal 

box against my chest while we drove. Then Iforgot about him. After I was wounded I never found him. Some one probably got it at one of the dressing stations.
We drove fast when we were over the bridgeand soon we saw the dust of the other cars ahead down the road. The road curved and we saw the three cars looking quite small, the dust risingfrom the wheels andgoing off through the trees. We caught them and passed them and turned off on a road that climbed up into the hills. Drivingin convoy is not unpleasant if you are the first carand I settled back in the seat and watched the country. We were in the foothills on the near sideof theriverand as the road mounted there were the high mountains off to the north with snow still on the tops. I lookedback and saw the three cars all climbing, spaced by the interval of their dust. We passed along column of loaded mules, the drivers walkingalong besidethe mules wearing red fezzes. They were bersaglieri.

Beyond the mule train the road was empty and we climbed through the hills and then went down over the shoulder of a long hillinto a river­valley. There were trees along both sides of theroad and through the right line of trees I saw the river, the water clear, fast and shallow. The river was low and there were stretches of sand and pebbles with a narrow channel of water and sometimes the water spread like a sheen over the pebbly bed. Close to the bank I saw deep pools, the water bluelike the sky.I saw arched stone bridges over the river where tracks turned off from the road and we passed stone farmhouses with pear trees candelabraed against their south walls and low stone walls in the fields.The road went up the valley alongway and then we turned off and commenced to climb into the hills again. The road climbed steeply going up and back and forth through chestnut woods tolevelfinally along a ridge. I could look down through the woods and see, farbelow, with the sun onit, the line of the river that separated the two armies. 

We went along the rough newmilitary road that followed the crest of the ridge and I looked to the north at the two ranges of mountains, green and dark to the snow­line and then white and lovely in the sun.Then, as the road mounted along the ridge, I saw a third range of mountains, higher snowmountains, that looked chalky white and furrowed, with strange planes, and thenthere were mountains far off beyond all these that you could hardly tellif you really saw. 

Those were allthe Austrians'mountains and we had nothinglike them. Ahead there was a rounded turn­off in theroad to theright andlooking down I could see the road dropping through the trees. There were troops on this road and motor trucks and mules withmountain guns and as we went down, keeping to the side, I could see the river far down below, the line of ties and rails running along it, the old bridge where therailway crossed tothe other side andacross, under a hill beyond the river, the broken houses of thelittle town that was to be taken.

It was nearly dark when we came down and turned onto the main road that ran beside the river.
9 

The road was crowded and there were screens of corn­stalk and straw matting on both sides and matting over the top sothat it was like the entrance at a circus ora native village.We drove slowly in this matting­covered tunnel and came out onto a bare cleared space where the railway station hadbeen. The road here was below the level ofthe river bank andallalong the sideof the sunkenroad there were holes dugin the bank with infantry in them. The sun was going down and looking up along the bank as we drove I saw the Austrian observation balloons above the hills on the other side dark against the sunset. We parked the cars beyond a brickyard. 

Theovens and some deep holes had been equipped as dressing stations. There were three doctors that I knew. I talked with the major and learned that when it should start and our cars should be loaded we would drive them back along the screened road andup to the main road along the ridge where there would be a post and other cars to clear them. He hoped the road would not jam. It was a one­road show. The road was screened becauseit was in sight of the Austrians across the river. 

Here at the brickyard we were sheltered from rifle or machine­gun fire by the river bank. There was one smashed bridge across the river. They were going to put over anotherbridge when the bombardment started and some troops were to cross at the shallows up above at the bend of the river. The majorwas a little man with upturned mustaches. He had been in the warin Libyaand wore two woundstripes. He said that if the thing went well he would see that I was decorated. I said Ihoped it would go well but that he was too kind. 

I asked him if there was a big dugout where thedrivers could stay and he sent a soldier to showme. I went with him and found the dugout, which was very good. The drivers were pleased with it and I left them there. The major asked me to have a drink with him and two other officers. We drank rum and it was very friendly. Outsideit was getting dark. Iasked what time the attack was to he and they said as soon as it was dark. I went back to the drivers. They were sittingin the dugout talking and when I came in they stopped. I gave them each a package ofcigarettes, Macedonias, loosely packed cigarettes that spilledtobaccoand needed to have theends twisted before you smoked them. Manera lit his lighter and passedit around. The lighter was shapedlike aFiat radiator. I told themwhat I had heard.

"Why didn't we see the post when we came down?" Passini asked. "It was just beyond where we turned off."
"That road will be a dirty mess," Manera said. "They'll shell the ­­­­ out of us."
"Probably."

"What about eating, lieutenant? We won't get a chance to eat after this thing starts." "I'll go and see now," I said.
"You want us to stay here or can we look around?" "Better stay here."
I went back to the major's dugout and he said the field kitchen would be along and the drivers could come and get their stew. He would loan themmess tins if they did not have them. I said I thought they had them. I went back and told the drivers I would get them as soon as the food came. Manera said he hoped it would come before the bombardment started.They were silent until I went out. They were all mechanics and hated the war.
I went out tolook at the cars and see what was going onand then came back and sat down in the dugout with the four drivers. We sat on the ground with our backs against 

the wall and smoked. Outsideit was nearly dark. The earth of the dugout was warm and dry and I let my shoulders back against the wall, sitting on the small of my back, and relaxed.
"Who goes to the attack?"asked Gavuzzi. "Bersaglieri."
"All bersaglieri?" "I think so."
"There aren't enough troops here for a real attack."
"It is probably todraw attentionfromwhere the real attack willbe." "Do the men know that who attack?"
"I don't think so."
"Of course they don't," Manera said. "They wouldn't attack if they did." "Yes, they would," Passini said. "Bersaglieriare fools."
"They are brave and have gooddiscipline," I said.
"They are big through the chest by measurement, andhealthy. But they are still fools."
"The granatieri are tall," Manera said. This was a joke. They alllaughed. "Were youthere, Tenente, when they wouldn't attack and they shot every tenth
man?" "No."

"It is true. They lined them up afterward and took every tenth man. Carabinieri shot them."
"Carabinieri," said Passiniand spat on the floor. "But those grenadiers; all over six feet. They wouldn't attack."
"If everybody would not attack the war wouldbe over," Manera said.
"It wasn't that way with the granatieri. They were afraid. The officers all came from such good families."
"Some of the officers went alone."

"A sergeant shot two officers who would not get out." "Some troops went out."
"Those that went out were not lined up when they took the tenth men."

"One of those shot by the carabinieriis frommy town," Passini said. "He was a big smart tallboy to be in the granatieri. Always in Rome. Always with the girls. Always with the carabinieri." He laughed. "Now they have a guard outsidehis house with a bayonet and nobody can come to see his mother and father and sisters and his fatherloses his civil rights and cannot even vote. They are allwithout law to protect them. Anybody can take theirproperty."
"If it wasn't that that happens to their families nobody would go to the attack." "Yes. Alpini would. These V. E. soldiers would. Some bersaglieri." "Bersaglieri have run too. Now they try to forget it."

"You should notlet us talk this way, Tenente. Evviva l'esercito," Passini said sarcastically.
"I know how you talk,"I said. "But as long as you drive the cars and behave­­" "­­and don't talk so other officers can hear," Manera finished. "I believe we should
get the war over," I said. "It would not finish it if one side stopped fighting. It would only be worse if we stopped fighting." 

"It could not be worse," Passini said respectfully. "There is nothing worse than war." "Defeat is worse."
"I do not believeit," Passini said still respectfully. "What is defeat? You go home." "They come after you. They take your home. They take your sisters."
"I don't believeit," Passini said. "They can't do that to everybody. Let everybody defend his home. Let them keep their sisters in the house."
"They hang you. They come and make you be a soldier again. Not in the auto­ ambulance, in the infantry."

"They can't hang every one."
"An outside nation can't make you be a soldier," Manera said. "At the first battle you all run."
"Like theTchecos."

"I think youdo not know anything about being conquered and so you think it is not bad."
"Tenente," Passini said. "We understand you let us talk. Listen. There is nothing as bad as war. Wein the auto­ambulance cannot even realize at all how bad it is.When people realize how badit is they cannot do anything to stop it because they go crazy. There are some people who never realize. There are people who are afraid of their officers. It is with them the war is made."

"I know it is bad but we must finish it."
"It doesn't finish. There is no finish to a war." "Yes there is."
Passini shook his head.
"Waris not won by victory. What if we take San Gabriele? What if we take the Carso and Monfalcone and Trieste? Where are we then? Did you see all the far mountains to­day? Do you think we could take all them too? Only if the Austrians stop fighting. One side must stop fighting. Why don't we stop fighting? If they come down into Italy they will get tired and goaway. They have their own country. But no, insteadthereis a war."
"You're an orator."

"We think.We read.We are not peasants. We are mechanics. But even the peasants know better than to believe in a war. Everybody hates this war."
"There is a class that controls a country that is stupid and does not realize anything and never can.That is why we have this war."
"Also they makemoney out of it."

"Most of them don't," said Passini. "They are too stupid. They do it for nothing. For stupidity."
"We must shut up," said Manera. "We talk toomuch even for the Tenente." "He likes it," said Passini. "We will convert him."
"But now we will shut up," Manera said. "Do we eat yet, Tenente?" Gavuzziasked.
"I will go and see," I said. Gordini stood up and went outside with me.
"Is there anything I can do, Tenente? Can I help in any way?" He was the quietest one of the four. "Come with me if you want," I said, "and we'll see."
It was dark outsideand the long light from the search­lights was moving over the mountains. There were big search­lights onthat front mounted on camions that you 

passed sometimes on the roads at night, close behind thelines, the camion stopped a little off the road, an officer directing the light and the crew scared. We crossed the brickyard,and stoppedat the main dressing station. There was alittle shelter of green branches outsideover the entrance and in the dark the night wind rustled theleaves dried by the sun. Inside there was alight. The major was at the telephone sittingon a box. One of the medical captains said the attack had been put forward an hour. He offered me a glass of cognac. I looked at the board tables, the instruments shiningin the light, the basins and the stoppered bottles. Gordini stood behind me. The major got up from the telephone.
"It starts now," he said."It has been put back again."

I looked outside, it was dark and the Austriansearch­lights were moving on the mountains behindus. It was quiet for a moment still, then from allthe guns behind us the bombardment started.
"Savoia," said the major.

"About the soup, major," I said. He did not hear me. I repeatedit. "It hasn't come up."
A big shell came in and burst outsidein the brickyard. Another burst and in the noise you could hear the smallernoise of thebrick and dirt raining down.
"What is there to eat?"
"We have a little pasta asciutta," the major said. "I'll take what you can give me."
The major spoke to an orderly who went out of sight in the back and came back with a metal basin of cold cooked macaroni. Ihandedit to Gordini.
"Have you any cheese?"

The major spoke grudgingly to the orderly who ducked back into the hole again and came out with a quarter of a white cheese.
"Thank you very much," I said. "You'd betternot go out."
Outside something was set down beside the entrance. One of the two menwho had carried it lookedin.
"Bring him in," said the major. "What's the matter with you? Do you want us to come outside andget him?"
The two stretcher­bearers pickedup the man under the arms and by the legs and brought himin.
"Slit the tunic,"the major said.

He held a forceps with some gauze in the end. The two captains took off their coats. "Get out of here," the major said to the two stretcher­bearers.
"Come on," I said to Gordini.
"You better wait until the shellingis over," the major said overhis shoulder. "They want to eat," I said.
"As you wish."

Outside we ran across thebrickyard. A shell burst short near the riverbank. Then there was one that we did not hear coming until the sudden rush. We both went flat and with the flashand bump of the burst and the smell heard the singing off of the fragments and therattle of falling brick. Gordini got up and ran for the dugout. I was afterhim, 

holding the cheese, its smooth surface covered with brick dust. Inside the dugout were the three drivers sitting against the wall, smoking.
"Here, you patriots," I said.
"How are the cars?" Manera asked. "All right."
"Did they scare you, Tenente?" "You're damned right," I said.
I took out my knife, openedit, wiped off the blade and pared off the dirty outside surface of the cheese. Gavuzzi handed me the basin of macaroni.
"Start in toeat, Tenente."
"No," I said. "Putit on the floor. We'llall eat." "There are no forks."
"What the hell," I said in English.
I cut the cheese into pieces andlaid them on the macaroni.
"Sit down toit," I said.They sat down and waited. I put thumb and fingers into the macaroni andlifted. A mass loosened.
"Lift it high, Tenente."
I lifted it to arm's length and the strands cleared. I loweredit into the mouth, sucked and snappedin the ends, and chewed, then took a bite of cheese, chewed, and then a drink of the wine. It tastedof rusty metal. I handed the canteen back to Passini.
"It's rotten," he said. "It's been in there too long. I hadit in the car."
They were all eating, holding their chins closeover the basin, tipping their heads back, suckingin the ends. I took another mouthful and some cheese and a rinse of wine. Somethinglanded outside that shook the earth.

"Four hundred twenty or minnenwerfer," Gavuzzi said.
"There aren't any four hundred twenties in themountains," I said. "They have big Skoda guns. I've seen the holes."
"Three hundredfives."
We went on eating. There was a cough, a noise like a railway engine startingand then an explosion that shook the earth again.
"This isn't a deep dugout," Passini said. "That was a big trench mortar."
"Yes, sir."

I ate the end of my piece of cheese and took a swallow of wine. Through the other noise I heard a cough, then came the chuh­chuhchuh­chuh­­thenthere was a flash, as when a blast­furnace dooris swung open, and a roar that started white and went red and on and on in a rushing wind. I tried to breathebut my breath would not come and I felt myself rush bodily out of myself andout and out and out and all the time bodily in the wind. I went out swiftly, all of myself, and I knew I was dead and that it had all been a mistake to think you just died. Then I floated, and instead of going on I felt myself slide back. I breathed and I was back. 

Theground was torn up andin front of my head there was a splintered beam of wood. In the jolt of my head I heard somebody crying. I thought somebody was screaming. I tried to move but I could not move. I heard the machine­guns and rifles firing across theriverand all along the river. There was a great splashing and I saw the star­shells go up and burst and float whitely and rockets going up and heard the bombs, all this in a moment, and then I heard closeto me some one saying "Mama Mia! 

Oh, mama Mia!" I pulled and twisted andgot my legs loose finally and turned around and touched him. It was Passiniand when I touched him he screamed. His legs were toward me and I saw in the dark and the light that they were both smashed above the knee. One leg was gone and the other was held by tendons and part of the trouser and the stump twitched and jerkedas thoughit were not connected. He bit his arm and moaned, "Oh mama mia,mama Mia," then, "Dio te salve, Maria. Dio te salve, Maria. Oh Jesus shoot me Christ shoot me mama mia mama Mia oh purest 

lovely Mary shoot me. Stop it. Stopit. Stop it. Oh Jesus lovely Mary stop it. Oh oh oh oh," then choking, "Mama mama mia." Then he was quiet, biting his arm, the stump of his leg twitching.

"Porta feriti!" I shouted holding my hands cupped. "Porta feriti!" I tried to get closer to Passini to try to put a tourniquet on the legs but I could not move. I tried again and my legs moved alittle. I could pull backward along with my arms and elbows. 

Passini was quiet now. I sat beside him, undid my tunic and tried to rip the tail of my shirt. It would not rip and I bit theedge of the cloth to start it. Then I thought of his puttees. I had on wool stockings but Passini wore puttees. All the drivers wore puttees but Passini had only one leg. I unwound the puttee and while I was doing it I saw there was no need to try and make a tourniquet because he was dead already. I made sure he was dead. There were three others to locate. 

I sat up straight and as I did so somethinginside my head moved like the weights on a doll's eyes and it hit me inside in back of my eyeballs. My legs felt warm and wet andmy shoes were wet and warm inside. I knew that I was hit and leaned over and put my hand on my knee. My knee wasn't there. My hand went in and my knee was down on my shin. I wiped my hand on my shirt andanother floatinglight came very slowly down and I lookedat my leg and was very afraid. Oh, God, I said, get me out of here. I knew, however, that there had been three others. There were four drivers. Passini was dead. That left three. Some one took hold of me under the arms and somebody else lifted my legs.

"There are three others," I said. "Oneis dead."
"It's Manera.We went for a stretcher but there wasn't any. How are you, Tenente?" "Where is Gordini and Gavuzzi?"
"Gordini's at the post gettingbandaged. Gavuzzi has yourlegs. Hold on to my neck, Tenente. Are you badly hit?"
"In theleg. How is Gordini?"
"He's all right. It was a big trench mortar shell." "Passini's dead."
"Yes. He's dead."
A shell fell close and they both dropped to the ground and dropped me. "I'm sorry, Tenente," said Manera. "Hang onto my neck."
"If you drop me again."
"It was because we were scared." "Are you unwounded?"
"We are both wounded a little." "Can Gordini drive?"
"I don't think so."
They dropped me once more before we reached the post. "You sons of bitches," I said.
"I am sorry, Tenente," Manera said. "We won't drop you again." 

Outside the post agreat many of us lay on the ground in thedark. They carried wounded in and brought them out. I could see the light come out from the dressingstation when the curtain opened and they brought some one in or out. The dead were off to one side. Thedoctors were working with their sleeves up to their shoulders and were red as butchers. There were not enough stretchers. Some of the wounded were noisy but most were quiet. The wind blew the leaves in the bower over the door of the dressing station and thenight was getting cold. Stretcher­bearers came in all the time, put their stretchers down, unloaded them and went away. 

As soon as I got to thedressing station Manera brought a medical sergeant out and he put bandages on both my legs. He said there was so much dirt blown into the wound that there had not been much hemorrhage. They would take me as soon as possible. He went back inside. Gordini could not drive, Manera said. His shoulder was smashed and his head was hurt. He had not felt bad but now the shoulderhad stiffened. He was sitting up beside one of the brick walls. Manera and Gavuzzi each went off with a load of wounded. They could drive all right. The British had come with three ambulances andthey had two men on each ambulance. One of their drivers came over to me, brought by Gordiniwho looked very white and sick. The Britisher leaned over.

"Are you hit badly?"he asked. He was a tall man and wore steel­rimmed spectacles.
"In thelegs."
"It's not serious I hope.Will you have a cigarette?" "Thanks."
"They tell me you've lost two drivers."
"Yes. One killed and the fellow that brought you." "What rottenluck.Would you like us to take the cars?" "That's what I wanted to ask you."
"We'd take quitegood care of them and return them to the villa. 206 aren't you?" "Yes."
"It's a charming place. I've seen you about. They tell me you're an American." "Yes."
"I'm English." "No!"
"Yes, English. Did you think I was Italian?There were some Italians with one ofour units."
"It would be fineif you would take the cars,"I said.

"We'll be most careful of them," he straightened up. "This chap of yours was very anxious for me to see you." He patted Gordini on the shoulder. Gordini winced and smiled. The Englishman brokeinto voluble and perfect Italian. "Now everything is arranged. I've seen your Tenente. We will take over the two cars. You won't worry now." He broke off, "I must do something about getting you out of here. I'll see the medical wallahs. We'll take you back with us."
He walked across to the dressing station, stepping carefully among the wounded. I saw the blanket open, the light came out and he went in.
"He willlook after you,Tenente," Gordini said. "How are you, Franco?" 

"I am allright." He sat down beside me. In a moment the blanket in front of the dressing station opened and two stretcherbearers came out followed by the tall Englishman. He brought them over to me.
"Here is the American Tenente," he said in Italian.
"I'd rather wait," I said. "There are muchworse wounded than me. I'm allright." "Come, come," he said. "Don't be a bloody hero." Then in Italian: "Lift him very
carefully about the legs. His legs are very painful. He is the legitimate son of President Wilson." They picked me up and took me intothe dressing room. Inside they were operating on all the tables. The little major looked at us furious. He recognized me and waved a forceps.

"Ca va bien?" "Ca va."
"I have brought him in," thetall Englishman said in Italian. "Theonly sonof the American Ambassador. He can be here until you are ready to takehim. Then I will take himwith my first load." He bent over me. "I'lllook up their adjutant to do your papers andit will all go much faster." He stooped to go under the doorway and went out.The majorwas unhooking the forceps now, dropping them in a basin. I followed his hands with my eyes. Now he was bandaging. Then the stretcher­bearers took the man off the table.

"I'll take the American Tenente," one of the captains said. They lifted me onto the table. It was hard and slippery. There were many strong smells, chemical smells and the sweet smell of blood. They took off my trousers and the medical captain commenced dictating to the sergeant­adjutant while he worked, "Multiple superficial wounds of the left and right thigh andleft and right knee andright foot. Profound wounds ofright knee and foot. Lacerations of the scalp (he probed­­Does that hurt?­­Christ, yes!) with possible fracture of the skull. Incurred in theline of duty. That's what keeps youfrom being court­ martialledfor self­inflicted wounds,"he said. "Would youlike adrink of brandy? How did you runinto this thing anyway?What were you trying to do? Commit suicide? Antitetanus please, and mark a cross on bothlegs. Thank you. I'll clean this up a little, washit out,and put on a dressing. Your blood coagulates beautifully."

The adjutant, looking upfrom the paper, "What inflicted the wounds?" The medical captain, "What hit you?"
Me, with the eyes shut, "A trench mortar shell."
The captain, doing things that hurt sharply and severingtissue­­"Are you sure?" Me­­trying to lie still and feeling my stomach flutter when the flesh was cut, "I think
so."

Captain doctor­­(interested in something he was finding), "Fragments of enemy trench­mortar shell. Now I'll probe for some of this if youlike but it's not necessary. I'll paint all this and­­Does that sting? Good, that's nothing to how it will feellater. The pain hasn't started yet. Bringhim a glass of brandy. The shock dulls the pain; but this is all right, youhave nothing to worry about if it doesn't infect and it rarely does now. How is your head?"
"Good Christ" I said.
"Better not drink too much brandy then. If you've got a fracture you don't want inflammation. How does that feel?"
Sweat ran all over me. "Good Christ!" I said. 

"I guess you've got a fracture all right. I'll wrap you up and don't bounce your head around." He bandaged, his hands moving very fast and the bandage coming taut and sure. "All right, good luck and Vive la France."
"He's an American," one of theother captainssaid.
"I thought you said he was a Frenchman. He talks French," the captain said. "I've known him before. I always thought he was French." He drank a half tumbler of cognac. "Bring on something serious. Get some more of that Antitetanus."The captain waved to me. They lifted me and the blanket­flap went across my face as we went out. Outside the sergeant­adjutant knelt down beside me where I lay, "Name?" he asked softly. "Middle name? First name? Rank? Where born?What class?What corps?" and so on. "I'm sorry for your head, Tenente. I hope you feel better. I'm sending you now with the English ambulance."

"I'm allright," I said."Thank you very much." The pain that the major had spoken about had started and all that was happeningwas without interest or relation. After a while the English ambulance came up and they putme onto a stretcherand lifted the stretcher up to the ambulance leveland shovedit in. There was another stretcher by the side with a man on it whose nose I could see, waxy­looking, out of the bandages. He breathed very heavily. There were stretchers lifted and slid into the slings above. The tall English driver came around andlooked in, "I'll take it very easily," he said. "I hope you'llbe comfy." I felt the engine start, felt him climb up into the front seat, felt the brake come off and the clutch go in, then we started. I lay still and let the pain ride.

As the ambulance climbed along the road, it was slow in the traffic, sometimes it stopped, sometimes it backed on a turn, thenfinally it climbed quite fast. I felt something dripping. At firstit dropped slowly and regularly, thenit patteredintoa stream. I shouted to the driver. He stopped the car and looked in throughthe hole behind his seat.
"What is it?"
"The man on the stretcher over me has a hemorrhage."

"We're not far from the top. I wouldn't be ableto get the stretcher out alone." He started the car. The stream kept on. In the dark I could not see where it came from the canvas overhead. I tried to move sideways so that it did not fall on me. Where it had run down under my shirt it was warm and sticky. I was cold and my leg hurt sothat it made me sick. After a while the stream from the stretcher above lessened and started to drip again and I heard and felt the canvas above move as the man on the stretcher settled more comfortably.
"How is he?" the Englishman calledback. "We're almost up."
"He's dead I think," I said.
The drops fell very slowly, as they fall from an icicle after the sun has gone. It was cold in the carin the night as theroad climbed. At the post on the top they took the stretcher out and put anotherin and we went on.

10 

In the ward at the field hospital they told me a visitor was coming to see me in the afternoon. It was a hot day and there were many flies in theroom. My orderly had cut paperinto strips and tied the strips to a stick to make a brush that swished the flies away. I watched them settle on the ceiling. When he stopped swishing and fell asleep they came down and I blew them away and finally covered my face with my hands and slept too. It was very hot and when I woke my legs itched. I waked the orderly and he poured mineral water on the dressings. That made the bed damp and cool. Those of us that were awake talked across the ward. The afternoon was a quiet time. 

In the morning they came to each bed in turn, three men nurses and a doctor and picked youup out of bed and carried you into the dressingroom so that the beds could be made while we were having our wounds dressed. It was not a pleasant trip to the dressingroom and I did not know untillater that beds could be made with men in them. My orderly had finished pouring water and the bed felt cool and lovely and I was tellinghimwhere to scratch on the soles of my feet against theitching when one of the doctors brought in Rinaldi. He came in very fast and bent down over the bed and kissed me. I saw hewore gloves.
"How are you, baby? How do you feel? I bring you this­­" It was a bottle of cognac. The orderly brought a chair and he sat down, "and good news. You will be decorated. They want to get you the medaglia d'argentobut perhaps they can get only the bronze.

"What for?"
"Because you are gravely wounded. They say if you can prove you did any heroic act you can get the silver. Otherwise it will bethe bronze. Tell me exactly what happened. Did you do any heroic act?"
"No," I said. "I was blown up while we were eating cheese."
"Be serious. You must have done somethingheroic either before or after. Remember carefully."
"I did not."
"Didn't you carry anybody on your back? Gordini says you carried several people on yourback butthe medical major at the first post declares it is impossible. He had to signthe proposition for the citation."
"I didn't carry anybody. I couldn't move." "That doesn't matter," said Rinaldi.
He took off his gloves.
"I think we can get you the silver. Didn't you refuse to be medically aided before the others?"
"Not very firmly."
"That doesn't matter. Look how you are wounded. Look at your valorous conduct in asking to go always to the first line. Besides, the operation was successful."
"Did they cross the river allright?"
"Enormously. They take nearly a thousand prisoners. It's in the bulletin. Didn't you see it?"
"No."
"I'll bring it to you. Itis a successful coup de main." "How is everything?"
"Splendid.We are all splendid. Everybody is proud of you. Tell me just exactly how it happened. I am positive you will get the silver. Go on tell me. Tell me all about it." He 

paused and thought. "Maybe you will get an English medaltoo. There was an English there. I'll go and see him and ask if he willrecommend you. He ought to beable to do something. Do you suffer much? Have a drink. Orderly, go get a corkscrew. Oh you should see what I did in the removal of threemetres of smallintestine and better now than ever. It is one for The Lancet. You do me a translation andI will send it to The Lancet. Every day I am better. Poor dear baby, how do you feel?Where is that damn corkscrew? You are so braveand quiet I forget you are suffering." He slapped his gloves on the edge of the bed.

"Here is the corkscrew, SignorTenente," theorderly said.
"Open the bottle. Bring a glass. Drink that, baby. How is yourpoorhead? I looked at your papers. You haven't any fracture. Thatmajor at the first post was a hog­butcher. I would take you and neverhurt you. I never hurt anybody. I learn how to doit. Every day I learn to do things smoother and better. You must forgive me for talking so much, baby. I am very moved to see you badly wounded. There, drink that. It's good. It cost fifteen lire. It ought to be good. Five stars. After I leave here I'll go see that English andhe'll get you an English medal."
"They don't give them like that."

"You are so modest. I will send theliaisonofficer. He canhandle the English." "Have you seen Miss Barkley?"
"I will bring her here. I will go now and bring her here." "Don't go," I said. "Tell me about Gorizia. How are the girls?"
"There are no girls. For two weeks now they haven't changed them. I don't go there any more. It is disgraceful. They aren't girls; they are old war comrades."
"You don't go at all?"

"I just go to see if there is anything new. I stop by. They all ask for you. It is a disgrace that they should stay solong that they become friends."
"Maybe girls don't want to goto thefront any more."
"Of course they do. They have plenty of girls. It is just bad administration. They are keeping them for the pleasure of dugout hiders in the rear."
"Poor Rinaldi,"I said. "All alone at the war with no new girls." Rinaldi poured himself another glass of the cognac.
"I don't think it will hurt you, baby. You takeit."
I drank the cognac and felt it warm all the way down. Rinaldi poured another glass. He was quieter now. He held up the glass. "To your valorous wounds. To the silver medal. Tell me, baby, when you lie here allthe time in the hot weather don't you get excited?"
"Sometimes."

"I can't imagine lyinglike that. I would go crazy." "You are crazy."
"I wish you were back. No one to come in at night from adventures. No oneto make fun of. Noone tolend me money. No blood brother and roommate. Why do you get yourself wounded?"
"You can make fun of the priest."
"That priest. It isn't me that makes fun of him. It is the captain. I like him. If you must have a priest have thatpriest. He's coming tosee you. He makes big preparations."
"I like him."
"Oh, I knew it. Sometimes I think you and he are alittle that way. You know." 

"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do sometimes. A little that way like the number of the first regiment of the Brigata Ancona."
"Oh, go to hell."
He stood up and put on his gloves.
"Oh Ilove to tease you, baby. With your priest and your English girl, and really you are just like me underneath."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, we are. You are really an Italian. All fire and smoke and nothinginside. You only pretend tobe American. We are brothers and we loveeach other."
"Be good while I'm gone," I said.
"I will send Miss Barkley. You are better with her without me. You are purer and sweeter."
"Oh, go to hell."
"I will send her. Yourlovely cool goddess. English goddess. My God what would a man do with a woman like that except worship her? What else is an Englishwoman good for?"
"You are an ignorant foul­mouthed dago." "A what?"
"An ignorant wop."
"Wop. You are a frozen­faced . . . wop."
"You are ignorant. Stupid." I saw that word pricked him and kept on. "Uninformed. Inexperienced, stupid from inexperience."
"Truly? I tell you something about your good women. Your goddesses. There is only one difference between takinga girl whohas always been good and a woman. With a girlit is painful. That's all I know." He slappedthe bed with his glove. "And younever know if the girl will really likeit."
"Don't get angry."
"I'm not angry. I just tell you, baby, for your own good. To save you trouble." "That's the only difference?"
"Yes. But millions of fools like you don't know it." "You were sweet to tell me."
"We won't quarrel, baby. I love you too much. But don't be a fool." "No. I'll be wise like you."
"Don't be angry, baby. Laugh. Take a drink. I must go, really." "You're a good old boy."
"Now you see. Underneath we are the same. We are war brothers. Kiss me good­ by."
"You're sloppy."
"No. I amjustmore affectionate."
I felt his breath come toward me. "Good­by. I come to see you again soon." His breath went away. "I won't kiss youif you don't want. I'll send your English girl. Good­by, baby. The cognac is under the bed. Get well soon."
He was gone. 

11

It was dusk when the priest came. They had brought the soup andafterward taken away the bowls and I was lying lookingat therows of beds andout the window at the tree­ top that moved a little in the evening breeze. The breeze came in through the window and it was cooler withthe evening. The flies were on the ceiling now and on the electric light bulbs thathung on wires. Thelights were only turned on when some one was brought in at night or when something was being done. Itmade me feel very young tohave the dark come after the dusk and then remain. It was like being put to bed after early supper. The orderly came down between the beds and stopped. Some one was with him. It was the priest. He stood there small, brown­faced, and embarrassed.
"How do you do?" he asked. He put some packages down by the bed, on the floor. "All right, father."

He sat down in the chair that had been brought for Rinaldiand looked out of the window embarrassedly. I noticed his face looked Very tired.
"I can only stay a minute," he said. "It is late." "It's not late. How is the mess?"
He smiled. "I am still agreat joke," he sounded tired too. "Thank God they are all well.
"I am so glad you are all right," he said. "I hope you don't suffer." He seemed very tired and I was not used to seeing him tired.
"Not any more."
"I miss you at the mess."
"I wish I were there. I always enjoyed our talking."
"I brought you a few little things,"he said. He picked up the packages. "This is mosquito netting. This is a bottle of vermouth. You like vermouth? These are English papers."
"Please open them."
He was pleasedand undid them. I held the mosquito nettingin my hands. The vermouth he held up for me to see and then put it on the floor beside the bed. I held up one of the sheaf of English papers. I could read the headlines by turning it so the half­light from the windowwas on it. It was _The News of the World_.
"The others are illustrated," he said.
"It will be a great happiness to read them. Where did you get them?" "I sent for them to Mestre. I will have more."
"You were very good to come, father.Will you drink a glass of vermouth?" "Thank you. You keepit. It's for you."
"No, drink a glass."
"All right. I will bring you more then."
The orderly brought the glasses and opened the bottle. He broke off the cork and the end had tobe shoved down into the bottle. I could see the priest was disappointed but he said, "That's all right. It's no matter."
"Here's to your health, father." 

"To your better health."
Afterward he held the glass in his hand and we looked at one another. Sometimes we talked and were good friends but to­night it was difficult.
"What's the matter, father? You seem very tired." "I am tired but I have no right to be."
"It's the heat."
"No. This is only the spring. I feel very low." "You have the war disgust."
"No. But I hate the war."
"I don't enjoy it," I said. He shook his head and looked out of the window. "You do not mind it. You do not seeit. You must forgive me. I know you are
wounded."
"That is an accident."
"Still even wounded you do not seeit. I can tell. I do not seeit myself but I feelit a little."
"When I was wounded we were talking about it. Passini was talking." The priest put down the glass. He was thinking about something else. "I know them because I am like they are," hesaid.
"You are different though." "But really I am like they are."
"The officers don't see anything."
"Some of them do. Some are very delicate and feel worse than any ofus." "They are mostly different."
"It is not education or money. It is somethingelse. Even if they had educationor money men like Passini would not wish to beofficers. I would not be anofficer."
"You rank as an officer. I am an officer."
"I am not really. You are not even an Italian. You are a foreigner. But you are nearer the officers than you are to the men."
"What is the difference?"
"I cannot say it easily. There are people who would makewar. In this country there are many like that. There are other people who would not make war."
"But the first ones make them do it." "Yes."
"And I help them."
"You are a foreigner. You are a patriot."
"And the ones who would not make war? Can they stop it?" I do not know. He looked out of the window again. I watchedhis face.
"Have they ever been able to stop it?"
"They are not organized to stop things and when they get organized theirleaders sell them out."
"Then it's hopeless?"
"It is never hopeless. But sometimes I cannot hope. I try always to hope but sometimes I cannot."
"Maybe the war will be over." "I hope so."
"What will you do then?" 

"If it is possible I willreturn to the Abruzzi." His brown face was suddenly very happy. "You love the Abruzzi?"
"Yes, I love it very much." "You ought to go there then."
"I would betoo happy. IfI could live there and love God and serve Him." "And be respected," I said.
"Yes and be respected. Why not?"
"No reason not. You should be respected."
"It does not matter. But there in my country it is understood that a manmay love God. It is not a dirty joke."
"I understand."
He looked at me and smiled.
"You understandbut you do notlove God." "No."
"You do not love Him at all?" he asked.
"I am afraid of Him in the night sometimes." "You should love Him."
"I don't love much."
"Yes," he said. "You do. What you tell me about in the nights. That is not love. That is only passion andlust.When youlove you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve."
"I don't love."
"You will. I know you will. Then you will be happy." "I'm happy. I've always been happy."
"It is another thing. You cannot know about it unless you haveit." "Well," I said."If I ever get it I will tell you."
"I stay too long and talk too much." He was worried that he really did.
"No. Don't go. How about loving women? If I really loved some woman would it be like that?"
"I don't know about that. I neverloved any woman." "What about your mother?"
"Yes, I must have loved my mother." "Did you always love God?"
"Ever since I was a little boy."
"Well," I said. I did not know what to say. "You are a fine boy," I said. "I am a boy," he said."But you call me father."
"That's politeness." He smiled.
"I must go, really," he said. "Youdo not want me for anything?" heasked hopefully. "No. Just to talk."
"I will take your greetings to the mess." "Thank you for the many fine presents." "Nothing."
"Come and see me again."
"Yes. Good­by," he patted my hand. 

"So long," I saidin dialect. "Ciaou," he repeated.
It was dark in the room and the orderly, who had sat by the foot of the bed, got up and went out with him. I liked him very much and I hoped he would get back to the Abruzzi some time. He had a rotten life in the mess and he was fineabout it but I thought how he would bein his own country. At Capracotta, he had told me, there were trout in the stream below the town. It was forbidden toplay the flute at night.When the young men serenaded only the flute was forbidden.

Why, I had asked. Because it was bad for the girls to hear the flute at night. The peasants all called you "Don" and when you met them they took off their hats. His father hunted every day and stopped to eat at the houses of peasants. They were always honored. For a foreigner tohunthe must present a certificate that hehad never been arrested. There were bears on the Gran Sasso D'Italia but it was a long way. Aquila was a fine town. It was coolin the summer at night and the springin Abruzzi was the most beautifulin Italy. But what was lovely was the fall to go hunting through the chestnut woods. The birds were allgoodbecause they fed on grapes and you never took a lunch because the peasants were always honoredif you would eat with them at their houses. After a while I went to sleep.

12

The roomwas long with windows on the right­hand side and adoorat thefar end that went into the dressing room. The row of beds that mine was in faced the windows and another row, underthe windows, facedthe wall. If youlay on yourleft side you could see the dressing­room door. There was another door at the far end that people sometimes came in by. If any one were going to die they put a screen aroundthe bed so you could not see them die, but only the shoes and puttees of doctors and men nurses showed under the bottom of the screen and sometimes at the end there would be whispering. Then the priest would come out from behind the screen and afterward the men nurses would go back behindthe screen to come out again carrying the one who was dead with a blanket over him down the corridor between the beds and some one folded the screen and took it away.

That morning the major in charge of the ward asked me if I felt that I could travel the next day. I said I could. He said then they would ship me out early in the morning. He said I would be better off making the trip now before it got too hot.

When they lifted you up out of bedto carry you into thedressing room you could look out of the window and see the new graves in the garden. A soldier sat outsidethe door that opened onto the garden making crosses and painting on them the names, rank, and regiment of the men who were buried in the garden. He also ran errands for the ward and in his spare time made me a cigarette lighter out of anempty Austrian rifle cartridge. The doctors were very nice and seemed very capable. They were anxious to ship me to Milan where there were better X­ray facilities and where, after the operation, I could take mechano­therapy. I wanted to go to Milan too. They wanted toget us allout and back as far as possible because all the beds were needed forthe offensive, when it should start.

The night before I left the field hospital Rinaldi came in to see me with the major from ourmess. They said that I would go toan American hospitalin Milan that had just beeninstalled. Some American ambulance units were to be sent down and this hospital would look after them and any other Americans on service in Italy. There were many in the Red Cross. The States had declared war onGermany but not on Austria.

The Italians were sure America would declare war on Austria too and they were very excited about any Americans coming down, even the Red Cross. They asked me if I thought President Wilson would declare war on Austria and I said it was only a matter of days. I did not know what we had against Austria but it seemed logical that they should declare war on herif they did on Germany. They asked me if we would declare war on Turkey.I said that was doubtful. Turkey, I said, was our national bird but the joke translated so badly and they were so puzzled and suspicious that I said yes, we would probably declare war on Turkey. And on Bulgaria? We had drunk several glasses of brandy and I said yes by God on Bulgaria too and on Japan. But,they said, Japanis an ally of England. You can't trust the bloody English. 

The Japanese want Hawaii, I said. Where is Hawaii? It is in the Pacific Ocean. Why do the Japanese want it? They don't really want it, I said.That is all talk. The Japanese are a wonderfullittle people fond of dancing and light wines. Like the French, said the major. We will get Nice and Savoia from the French.We will get Corsica and all the Adriatic coast­line, Rinaldi said. Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I don't like Rome, I said. It is hot and fullof fleas. You don't like Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of nations. I will never forget Romulus suckling the Tiber. What? Nothing. Let's all goto Rome.

Let's go to Rome to­night and never come back. Rome is a beautiful city, said the major. The mother and father of nations, I said. Roma is feminine, said Rinaldi. It cannot be the father.Who is the father, then, the Holy Ghost? Don't blaspheme. I wasn't blaspheming, I was asking for information. You are drunk, baby. Who made me drunk? I made you drunk, said the major. I made you drunk because I love you and because America is in the war. Up to the hilt, I said. You go away in the morning, baby, Rinaldi said. To Rome, I said. No, to Milan. To Milan, said the major, to the Crystal Palace, to the Cova, to Campari's, to Biffi's, to thegalleria. You lucky boy. To the Gran Italia, I said, where I will borrow money from George. To the Scala, said Rinaldi. You will go to the Scala. Every night, I said. You won't be able to afford it every night, said the major.

The tickets are very expensive. I will draw a sight draft on my grandfather, I said. A what? A sight draft. He has topay orI go to jail. Mr. Cunningham at the bank does it. Ilive by sight drafts. Cana grandfather jail a patriotic grandson who is dying that Italy may live? Live the American Garibaldi, said Rinaldi. Viva the sight drafts, I said. We must be quiet, said the major. Already we have been askedmany times to be quiet. 

Do you go to­morrow really, Federico? He goes to the American hospitalI tell you, Rinaldi said. To the beautiful nurses. Not the nurses with beards of the field hospital. Yes, yes, said the major, I know he goes to the American hospital. I don't mind their beards, I said. If any man wants to raise a beard let him. Why don't you raise a beard, Signor Maggiore? It could not go in a gas mask. Yes it could. Anything can go in a gas mask. I've vomited into a gas mask. Don't be so loud,baby, Rinaldi said.We all know you have beenat the front Oh, youfine baby, what will I do while you are gone?Wemust go, said the major. This becomes 

sentimental. Listen,I havea surprise for you. Your English. You know? The English you go to seeevery night at their hospital? Sheis going to Milan too. She goes with another to be at the American hospital. They had not got nurses yet from America. I talkedto­day with the head of their riparto. They have too many Women here at thefront. They send some back. How do you like that, baby? All right. Yes? You go to live in abig city and have your English there to cuddle you. Why don't I get wounded? Maybe you will, I said. We must go, said the major. We drink and make noise and disturb Federico. Don't go. Yes, we must go. Good­by. Goodluck. Many things. Ciaou. Ciaou. Ciaou. Come back quickly, baby. Rinaldi kissed me. You smell of lysol. Good­by, baby. Good­by. Many things. The major patted my shoulder. They tiptoed out. I found I was quite drunk but went to sleep.

The next day in the morning we left for Milanand arrived forty­eight hours later. It was a bad trip.We were sidetracked for a long time this side of Mestre and children came and peeked in. I got alittle boy togo for a bottle of cognac but he came back and said he could only get grappa. I told him to get it and when it came I gave him the change and the man beside me and I got drunk and slept until past Vicenza where I woke up and was very sick on the floor. 

It did not matter because theman on that side had been very sick on the floor several times before. Afterward I thought I could not stand the thirst and in the yards outside of Verona I called to a soldier who was walking up and down beside the train and he got me a drink of water. I woke Georgetti, the other boy who was drunk, and offered him some water. He said to pourit on his shoulder and went back to sleep. The soldier would not take the penny I offered him and brought me a pulpy orange. I sucked on that and spit out the pith and watched the soldier pass up and down past a freight­car outside and after a while the train gave a jerk and started.

BOOK TWO

13

We gotinto Milan early in the morning and they unloadedus in the freight yard. An ambulance took me to the American hospital. Ridingin the ambulance on a stretcher I could not tell what part of town we were passing through but when they unloaded the stretcher I saw a market­place and an open wine shop with a girl sweeping out. They were watering the street and it smelled of the early morning. They put the stretcherdown and went in. The porter came out with them. He had gray mustaches, wore a doorman's cap and was in his shirt sleeves. The stretcher would not go into the elevator and they discussed whetherit was better tolift me off the stretcher and goupin the elevator or 

carry the stretcher up the stairs. I listened to them discussing it. They decided on the elevator. They lifted me from the stretcher. "Go easy," I said. "Takeit softly."
In the elevator we were crowded and as my legs bent the pain was very bad. "Straightenout the legs,"I said.

"We can't, SignorTenente. There isn't room." The man who said this had his arm around me and my armwas around his neck. His breath came in my face metallic with garlic andred wine.
"Be gentle," the other man said. "Son of a bitch who isn't gentle!"
"Be gentle I say," the manwith my feet repeated.
I saw the doors of the elevator closed, and the grill shut and the fourth­floor button pushed by the porter. The porterlooked worried. The elevator rose slowly.
"Heavy?" I asked the manwith thegarlic.

"Nothing,"he said. His face was sweating and he grunted. The elevator rose steadily and stopped. The man holding the feet opened thedoorand stepped out.We were on a balcony. There were several doors with brass knobs. The man carrying the feet pushed a button thatrang a bell. We heard it inside the doors. No one came. Then the porter came up the stairs.
"Where are they?" the stretcher­bearers asked.

"I don't know," said the porter. "They sleep down stairs." "Get somebody."
The porterrang the bell, then knocked on thedoor, then heopened thedoorand went in.When he came back there was an elderly womanwearing glasses with him. Her hair was loose and half­fallingand she wore a nurse's dress.
"I can't understand," she said. "I can't understand Italian."
"I can speak English," I said. "They want to put me somewhere."
"None of the rooms are ready. There isn't any patient expected." She tucked at her hair and looked at me near­sightedly.
"Show them any roomwhere they can put me."

"I don't know," she said. "There's no patient expected. I couldn't put youin just any room."
"Any roomwill do," I said. Then to the porterin Italian, "Find an empty room." "They are all empty," said theporter. "You are the first patient." He held his capin
his hand and looked at the elderly nurse.
"For Christ's sweet sake take me to some room." The pain had gone onand on with thelegs bent and I could feelit going in and out of thebone. Theporter went in the door, followed by the grayhaired woman, then came hurrying back. "Followme," he said. They carried me down a long hallway and into a roomwith drawn blinds. It smelledof new furniture. There was a bed and a big wardrobe with a mirror. They laid me down on the bed.
"I can't put on sheets," the woman said. "Thesheets are locked up."
I did not speak toher. "There is money in my pocket," I said to the porter. "In the buttoned­down pocket." The porter took out the money. The two stretcher­bearers stood beside the bed holding their caps. "Give themfive lire apiece and five lire for yourself. My papers are in the other pocket. You may give them to the nurse." 

The stretcher­bearers salutedand said thank you. "Good­by," I said. "And many thanks." They saluted again and went out.
"Those papers," I said to the nurse, "describemy case and the treatment already given."

The woman picked them up and lookedat them through her glasses. There were three papers and they were folded. "I don't knowwhat to do," she said. "Ican't read Italian. I can't do anything without the doctor's orders." She commenced to cry and put the papers in her apronpocket. "Are you an American?"she asked crying.
"Yes. Please put the papers on the table by the bed."
It was dim and coolin the room. As I lay on the bed I could see the big mirror on the other side of the room but could not see what it reflected. The porter stood by thebed. He had a nice face and was very kind.

"You can go," I said to him. "You can go too,"I said to the nurse. "What is your name?"
"Mrs. Walker."
"You can go, Mrs. Walker. I think I will go to sleep."
I was alone in the room. It was cool and did not smelllike a hospital. The mattress was firm and comfortable and I lay without moving, hardly breathing, happy in feeling the pain lessen. After a while I wanted a drink ofwater and found the bellon a cord by the bed and rang it butnobody came. I went to sleep.

When I woke I looked around. There was sunlight coming in through the shutters. I saw the big armoire, the bare walls, andtwo chairs. My legs in the dirty bandages, stuck straight outin the bed. I was careful not to move them. I was thirsty and I reached for the bell and pushed the button. I heard the door open andlooked andit was a nurse. She looked young and pretty.
"Good­morning," I said.

"Good­morning," she said and came over to the bed. "We haven't been able to get the doctor. He's gone to Lake Como. No one knew there was a patient coming. What's wrong with you anyway?"
"I'mwounded. In the legs and feet and my head is hurt." "What's your name?"
"Henry. Frederic Henry."
"I'll wash you up. But we can't do anything to the dressings until the doctor comes." "Is Miss Barkley here?"
"No. There's no one by that name here." "Whowas the womanwho cried when I came in?"
The nurse laughed. "That's Mrs. Walker. She was on night duty and she'd been asleep. She wasn't expecting any one."
While we were talking she was undressing me, and when I was undressed, except for the bandages, she washed me, very gently and smoothly. The washing felt very good. There was a bandage on my head but she washed all around the edge.
"Where were you wounded?" "On the Isonze north of Plava." "Where is that?"
"North of Gorizia."
I could see that none of the places meant anything to her. 

"Do you have a lot of pain?" "No. Not much now."
She put a thermometer in my mouth. "The Italians put it under the arm," I said. "Don't talk."
When she took the thermometer out she read it and then shook it. "What's the temperature?"
"You're not supposed to know that." "Tell me what it is."
"It's almost normal."

"I never have any fever. My legs are full of old iron too." "What do you mean?"
"They're fullof trench­mortar fragments, old screws and bedsprings and things." She shook her head and smiled.
"If you had any foreign bodies in yourlegs they would set up aninflammation and you'd have fever."
"All right," I said. "We'll see what comes out."
She went out of theroom and came back with the old nurse of the early morning. Together they made the bed with me in it. That was new tome and an admirable proceeding.
"Who is in charge here?" "Miss Van Campen." "Howmany nurses are there?" "Just us two."
"Won't there be more?" "Some more are coming." "When willthey get here?"
"I don't know. You ask a great many questions for a sick boy." "I'm not sick," I said. "I'mwounded."
They had finished makingthe bed andI lay with a clean smooth sheet under me and another sheet over me. Mrs. Walker went out and came back with a pajama jacket. They put thaton me and I felt very clean and dressed.

"You're awfully nice to me," I said. The nurse called Miss Gage giggled. "Could I have a drink of water?"I asked.
"Certainly. Then you canhave breakfast."
"I don't want breakfast. Can Ihave the shutters openedplease?"
Thelight had been dim in theroom and when the shutters were openedit was bright sunlight and I looked out on a balcony and beyond were the tile roofs of houses and chimneys. I looked out overthe tiled roofs and sawwhite clouds and the sky very blue.
"Don't you know when the other nurses are coming?" "Why? Don't we take good care of you?"
"You're very nice."
"Would you like to use the bedpan?" "I might try."
They helped me and held me up but it was not any use. Afterward Ilay and looked out the open doors onto the balcony. 

"When does the doctor come?"
"When he gets back.We've tried to telephone to Lake Como for him." "Aren't there any other doctors?"
"He's the doctor forthe hospital."
Miss Gage brought a pitcher of water and aglass. I drank three glasses and then they left me and I lookedout the window a while and went back to sleep. I ate some lunch and in the afternoon Miss Van Campen, the superintendent, came up to see me. She did not like me and I did not like her. She was small and neatly suspicious and too goodfor her position. She asked many questions and seemed to think it was somewhat disgraceful that I was with the Italians.
"Can I have wine with the meals?" I asked her. "Only if the doctorprescribes it."
"I can't haveit until he comes?" "Absolutely not."

"You plan on havinghim come eventually?" "We've telephoned him at Lake Como." She went out and Miss Gage came back.
"Why were you rude to Miss Van Campen?" she asked after she haddone something for me very skilfully.
"I didn't mean to be. But she was snooty." "She said you were domineering and rude."
"I wasn't. But what's the idea of a hospital without a doctor?" "He's coming. They've telephoned for himto Lake Como." "What does he do there? Swim?"
"No. He has a clinic there."
"Why don't they get anotherdoctor?"
"Hush. Hush. Be a good boy and he'll come."

I sent for the porter and when he came I told him in Italian to get me a bottle of Cinzano at the wine shop, a fiasco of chianti and the evening papers. He went away and brought themwrapped in newspaper, unwrapped them and, when I asked him to, drew the corks and put the wine and vermouth under the bed. They left me alone and Ilay in bed andread the papers awhile, the news from the front, and the list of dead officers with their decorations and then reached down andbrought up the bottle of Cinzano and held it straight up on my stomach, the cool glass against my stomach, and took little drinks making rings on my stomach from holding thebottle there between drinks, and watched it get dark outsideover the roofs of the town. The swallows circled aroundand I watched them and the night­hawks flying above the roofs and drank the Cinzano. Miss Gage brought up a glass with some eggnog in it. I lowered the vermouth bottle to the other side of the bed when she came in.

"Miss Van Campen had some sherry put in this," she said. "You shouldn't be rude to her. She's not young and this hospitalis a big responsibility for her. Mrs. Walker's too old and she's no use to her."
"She's a splendid woman," I said. "Thank hervery much." "I'm going tobring your supper right away."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm not hungry." 

When she brought the tray and put it on the bed table Ithanked herand ate a little of the supper. Afterward it was dark outside and I could see the beams of the search­lights moving in the sky. I watched for a while and then went to sleep. I slept heavily except once I woke sweating and scared and then went back to sleep trying to stay outside of my dream. I woke for good long before it was light and heard roosters crowingand stayed on awake untilit began to belight. I was tired and onceit was really light I went back to sleep again.

14

It was bright sunlight in the roomwhen I woke. I thought I was back at the front and stretchedout in bed. My legs hurt me and I looked down at them still in the dirty bandages, and seeing them knewwhere I was. I reached upfor the bell­cord and pushed the button. I heard it buzz down the halland then some one coming on rubber soles along the hall. It was Miss Gage and shelooked alittle olderin the bright sunlight and not so pretty.

"Good­morning," she said. "Did you have a good night?" "Yes. Thanks very much," I said. "Can I have a barber?"
"I came in to see you and you were asleep with this in thebed with you."
She opened the armoire door and held up the vermouth bottle. It was nearly empty. "I put the other bottle from under the bedin there too," she said. "Why didn't you ask me for a glass?"
"I thought maybe you wouldn't let me have it." "I'd have had some with you."
"You're a fine girl."
"It isn't good for you to drink alone," she said. "You mustn't do it." "All right."
"Your friend Miss Barkley's come," she said. "Really?"
"Yes. I don't like her."
"You willlike her. She's awfully nice."

She shook her head. "I'm sure she's fine. Can you movejust a little to this side? That's fine. I'll clean you up for breakfast." She washedme with a cloth and soap and warmwater. "Hold your shoulder up," she said. "That's fine."
"Can I have the barber before breakfast?"
"I'll sendthe porter forhim." She went out and came back. "He's gonefor him," she said and dipped the cloth she held in the basin of water.
The barber came with the porter. He was a man of about fifty with an upturned mustache. Miss Gage was finished with me and went out and the barber lathered my face and shaved. He was very solemn and refrained from talking.
"What's the matter? Don't you know any news?" I asked. "What news?" 

"Any news. What's happenedin the town?"
"It is time of wai" he said. "The enemy's ears are everywhere."
I looked up at him. "Please hold your face still," he said and went on shaving. "I will tell nothing."
"What's the matter with you?" I asked.
"I am an Italian. I willnot communicate with the enemy."
I let it go at that. If he was crazy, the sooner I could get out from under the razor the better. Once I tried to get a goodlook at him. "Beware," he said. "Therazoris sharp."
I paid himwhen it was over and tipped him half alira. He returned the coins. "I will not. I am not at thefront. But I am an Italian."
"Get the hell outof here."

"With your permission," he said and wrapped his razors in newspaper. He went out leaving the five copper coins on thetable beside the bed. I rang the bell. Miss Gage came in. "Would youask the porter to come please?"
"All right."
The porter came in. He was trying to keep from laughing. "Is that barber crazy?"
"No, signorino. He made a mistake. He doesn't understand very well and he thought I said you were an Austrianofficer."
"Oh," I said.

"Ho ho ho," the porterlaughed. "He was funny. One move from you he said and he would have­­" he drew his forefinger across his throat.
"Ho ho ho," he tried to keep from laughing. "When I tell him you were not an Austrian. Ho ho ho."
"Hoho ho," I said bitterly. "How funny if he would cut my throat. Ho hoho." "No, signorino. No, no. He was so frightenedof an Austrian. Ho ho ho." "Ho ho ho," I said. "Get out of here."
He went out and I heard him laughingin the hall. I heard some one coming down the hallway. I looked toward the door. It was Catherine Barkley.
She came in the room and over to the bed.

"Hello, darling," she said. Shelooked fresh and young and very beautiful. I thought I had never seen any one so beautiful.
"Hello," I said.When I saw her I was in love with her. Everything turned over inside of me. She looked toward the door, saw there was no one, then she sat on the side of the bed andleanedover and kissed me. I pulled her down and kissedher and felt her heart beating.
"You sweet," I said. "Weren't you wonderful to come here?" "It wasn't very hard. It may be hard to stay."
"You've got to stay," I said. "Oh, you're wonderful." I was crazy about her. I could not believe she was really there and held her tight to me.
"You mustn't," she said. "You're not wellenough." "Yes, I am. Come on."
"No. You're not strong enough." "Yes. I am. Yes. Please."
"You dolove me?"
"I really love you. I'm crazy about you. Come on please." 

"Feel our hearts beating."
"I don't care about ourhearts. I want you. I'mjust mad about you." "You really love me?"
"Don't keep on saying that. Come on. Please.Please, Catherine." "All right but only fora minute."
"All right," I said. "Shut the door." "You can't. You shouldn't."
"Come on. Don't talk. Please come on."

Catherine satin a chair by the bed. The doorwas open into the hall. The wildness was gone and I felt finer than Ihad ever felt.
She asked, "Now do youbelieve I love you?"

"Oh, you're lovely," I said. "You've got to stay. They can't send you away. I'm crazy in love with you."
"We'll have to be awfully careful. That was just madness. We can't do that." "We can at night."
"We'll have to be awfully careful. You'll have to be carefulin front of other people." "I will."
"You'll have to be. You're sweet. You doloveme, don't you?" "Don't say that again. You don't know what that does to me."
"I'll be careful then. I don't want to do anythingmore to you. I have to go now, darling, really."
"Come back right away." "I'll come when I can." "Good­by."
"Good­by, sweet."
She went out. God knows I hadnot wanted tofallin love with her. I had not wanted to fallin love withany one. But God knows I had and Ilay on the bedin the room of the hospitalin Milan and all sorts of things went through my head but I felt wonderful and finally Miss Gage came in.
"The doctor's coming," she said. "He telephoned from Lake Como." "When does he get here?"
"He'll be here this afternoon."

15


Nothing happened until afternoon. The doctorwas a thin quiet little man who seemed disturbed by the war. He took out a number of small steel splinters frommy thighs with delicate and refined distaste. He used alocalanaesthetic called something orother "snow," which froze the tissueand avoided pain until the probe, the scalpel or the forceps got below the frozen portion. The anxsthetized area was clearly defined by the patient and after a time the doctor's fragile delicacy was exhausted and he said it would be better to have an X­ray. Probing was unsatisfactory, he said. 

The X­ray was taken at the Ospedale Maggiore and the doctor who did it was excitable, efficient and cheerful. It was arranged by holding up the shoulders, that the patient should see personally some of the larger foreign bodies through the machine. The plates were to be sent over. The doctor requested me to write in his pocket notebook, my name, and regiment and some sentiment. He declared that the foreign bodies were ugly, nasty, brutal. 

The Austrians were sons of bitches. Howmany had I killed? I had not killed any but I was anxious to please­­and I said I had killed plenty. Miss Gage was with me and thedoctorput his arm around her and said she was more beautiful than Cleopatra. Did she understand that? Cleopatra theformer queen of Egypt. Yes, by God she was. We returned to thelittle hospitalin the ambulance and after a while and much lifting I was upstairs and in bed again. The plates came that afternoon, the doctor had said by God he would have them that afternoon andhe did. Catherine Barkley showed them tome. They were in red envelopes and she took them out of the envelopes and held them up to the light and we bothlooked.

"That's your right leg," she said, then put the plate back in the envelope. "This is yourleft."
"Put them away," I said, "and come over to the bed."
"I can't," she said. "I just brought them in for asecond to show you."
She went out and I lay there. It was a hot afternoon and I was sick oflying in bed. I sent the porter for the papers, all the papers he could get.
Before he came back three doctors came intothe room. I have noticed that doctors who fail in thepractice of medicine have a tendency to seek oneanother's company and aid in consultation. A doctor who cannot takeout yourappendix properly will recommend to you a doctor who willbe unable to remove your tonsils with success. These were three such doctors.
"This is the young man," said the house doctor with the delicate hands.

"How do you do?" said the tall gaunt doctor with the beard. The third doctor, who carried the X­ray plates in theirred envelopes, said nothing.
"Remove the dressings?" questioned the bearded doctor.
"Certainly. Remove the dressings, please, nurse," the house doctor said to Miss Gage. Miss Gage removed the dressings. I looked down at the legs. At the field hospital they had thelook of not too freshly ground hamburger steak. Now they were crusted and the knee was swollen and discolored and the calf sunken but there was no pus.
"Very clean," said the housedoctor. "Very clean and nice."

"Urn," said the doctor with the beard. The third doctorlooked over the house doctor's shoulder.
"Please move the knee," said the bearded doctor. "I can't."
"Test the articulation?" the bearded doctor questioned. He had a stripe beside the three stars on his sleeve. That meant he was a first captain.
"Certainly,"the house doctor said. Two of them took hold of my right leg very gingerly and bent it.
"That hurts," I said.
"Yes. Yes. A little further, doctor."
"That's enough.That's as far as it goes," I said. 

"Partial articulation," said the first captain. He straightened up. "May I see the plates again, please, doctor?"Thethird doctorhanded him one of the plates. "No. Theleft leg, please."
"That is theleft leg, doctor."
"You are right. I was looking from a different angle." He returned the plate. The other plate he examined for some time. "You see, doctor?" he pointed to one of the foreign bodies which showed spherical and clear against thelight. They examined the plate for some time.
"Only one thing I can say," the first captain with the beard said. "It is a question of time. Three months, six months probably."
"Certainly the synovial fluid must re­form."
"Certainly. It is a question of time. I could notconscientiously open a knee like that before the projectile was encysted."
"I agree with you, doctor." "Sixmonths for what?" I asked.
"Sixmonths for the projectile to encyst before the knee can beopened safely." "I don't believeit," I said.
"Do you want to keep your knee, young man?" "No," I said.
"What?"

"I want it cut off," I said, "so I can wear a hook onit." "What do you mean? A hook?"
"He is joking," said the house doctor. He patted my shoulder very delicately. "He wants to keep his knee. This is a very brave young man. He has beenproposed for the silver medalof valor."
"All my felicitations," said thefirst captain. He shook my hand. "I can only say that to be on the safe side you should wait atleast sixmonths before opening sucha knee. You are welcome of course to anotheropinion."

"Thank you very much," I said. "I value youropinion." The first captain looked at his watch.
"We must go," he said. "All my best wishes."
"All my best wishes and many thanks," I said. I shook hands with the third doctor. "Capitano Varini­­Tenente Enry,"and they all three went out of the room.
"Miss Gage," I called. She came in. "Please ask the house doctor to come back a minute."
He came in holding his cap and stoodby thebed. "Did you wish to see me?" "Yes. I can't wait sixmonths to be operated on. My God, doctor, did you ever stay
in bed sixmonths?"

"You won't be in bed all the time. You must first have the wounds exposed to the sun. Then afterward you can be on crutches."
"For six months and then have an operation?"
"That is the safe way. The foreign bodies must be allowed to encyst and the synovialfluid will re­form. Then it will be safe to open up the knee."
"Do you really think yourself I will have to wait that long?" "That is the safe way."
"Who is that first captain?" 

"He is a very excellent surgeon of Milan." "He's a first captain, isn't he?"
"Yes, but he is an excellent surgeon."
"I don't want my leg fooled with by a first captain. If he was any good he would be made a major. I knowwhat a first captain is, doctor."
"He is an excellent surgeon and I would rather have his judgment than any surgeon I know."
"Could another surgeon see it?"
"Certainly if you wish. But I would take Dr. Varella's opinion myself." "Could you ask another surgeon to come andsee it?"
"I will ask Valentini to come." "Who is he?"
"He is a surgeon of the Ospedale Maggiore."

"Good. I appreciateit very much. You understand, doctor, I couldn't stay in bed six months."
"You would not be in bed. You would first take a sun cure. Then you could have light exercise.Then when it was encysted we would operate."
"But I can't wait sixmonths."

The doctor spread his delicatefingers on thecap he held and smiled. "Youare in such a hurry toget back to the front?"
"Why not?"
"It is very beautiful," he said. "You are anoble young man." He stooped over and kissed me very delicately on the forehead. "Iwill send for Valentini. Do not worry and excite yourself. Be a good boy."
"Will you have a drink?" I asked. "No thank you. I never drink alcohol."
"Just haveone." I rang forthe porter to bringglasses. "No. No thank you.They are waiting for me." "Good­by," I said.
"Good­by."

Two hours later Dr. Valentini came into the room. He was in a great hurry and the points of his mustache stood straight up. He was a major, his face was tanned and he laughed all the time.
"How did you do it, this rotten thing?" he asked. "Let me see the plates. Yes. Yes. That's it. Youlook healthy as a goat. Who's the pretty girl? Is she your girl? Ithought so. Isn't this a bloody war? How does that feel? You are a fine boy. I'll make you better than new. 

Does that hurt? You bet it hurts. How they love to hurt you, thesedoctors. What have they done for you so far? Can't that girl talk Italian? She should learn. What a lovely girl. I could teachher. I will be a patient here myself. No, but I will doall your maternity work free. Does she understand that? She will make you a fine boy. A fine blonde like sheis. That's fine. That's all right. What alovely girl. Ask herif she eats supper with me. No I won't take heraway from you. Thank you. Thank you very much, Miss. That's all."

"That's all I want to know." He patted me on the shoulder. "Leave the dressings off." "Will you have a drink, Dr. Valentini?"
"A drink? Certainly. I will have ten drinks. Where are they?" "In the armoire. Miss Barkley will get the bottle." 

"Cheery oh. Cheery oh to you, Miss. What a lovely girl. I will bring youbetter cognac than that." He wiped his mustache.
"When do you think it can beoperated on?"
"To­morrowmorning. Not before. Your stomach must be emptied. You must be washed out. I will see the old lady downstairsand leave instructions. Good­by. I see you to­morrow. I'll bring you better cognac than that. You are very comfortable here. Good­by. Until to­morrow. Get a good sleep. I'll see you early." He waved fromthe doorway, his mustaches went straight up, his brown face was smiling. There was a starin a box on his sleeve because he was a major.

16

That night a bat flew intothe room through the open door that led onto the balcony and through which we watched the night overthe roofs of the town. It was dark in our room except for the smalllight of the night over the town and the bat was not frightened but huntedin the room as though he had been outside. We lay and watched him and I do not think he saw us because we lay so still. After he went out we saw a searchlight come on and watched the beammove across the sky and then go off andit was dark again. A breeze came in the night and we heard the men of the anti­aircraft gunon the next roof talking. It was cool and they were putting on their capes. 

I worried in the night about some one coming up but Catherine said they were all asleep. Oncein the night we went to sleep and when I woke she was not there but I heard her coming along the hall and the door opened and she came back to the bed and said it was all right she had been downstairs and they were all asleep. She had been outside Miss Van Campen's door and heard her breathing in her sleep. She brought crackers and we ate them and drank some vermouth. We were very hungry but she said that wouldall have to be gotten out of me in the morning. I went to sleep again in the morningwhen it was light and when I was awake I found she was gone again. She came in looking freshand lovely and sat on the bedand the sun rose while I had the thermometer in my mouth and we smelled the dew on the roofs and thenthe coffee ofthe men at the gun on thenext roof.

"I wish we could go for a walk," Catherine said. "I'd wheel youif we hada chair." "Howwould I get into the chair?"
"We'd do it."
"We could goout to the park and havebreakfast outdoors." I lookedout the open doorway.
"What we'll really do," she said, "is get you ready for your friend Dr. Valentini." "I thought he was grand."
"I didn't like him as much as you did. But Iimagine he's very good." "Come back to bed, Catherine. Please," I said.
"I can't. Didn't we have alovely night?" "And can you be on night duty to­night?" "I probably will. But you won't want me." 

"Yes, I will."
"No, you won't. You've never been operated on. You don't know how you'llbe." "I'll be allright."
"You'll be sick and I won't be anything to you." "Come back then now."
"No," she said. "I have to do the chart, darling, and fix you up." "You don't really love me or you'd come back again."
"You're such a silly boy." She kissed me. "That's all right forthe chart. Your temperature's always normal. You've such a lovely temperature."
"You've got alovely everything."
"Oh no. You have the lovely temperature. I'm awfully proud of your temperature." "Maybe allour children will have fine temperatures."
"Our children will probably have beastly temperatures." "What do you have to do to get me ready forValentini?" "Not much. But quiteunpleasant."
"I wish you didn't have todoit."
"I don't. I don't want any one else to touch you. I'm silly. I get furious if they couch you."
"Even Ferguson?"
"Especially Ferguson and Gage andthe other, what's her name?" "Walker?"
"That's it. They've too many nurses here now. There must be some more patients or they'll send us away. They have four nurses now."
"Perhaps there'll be some. They need that many nurses. It's quite a big hospital." "I hope some will come. What would I do if they sent me away? They will unless
there are more patients." "I'd go too."
"Don't be silly. You can't go yet. But get well quickly, darling, and we will go somewhere."
"And then what?"
"Maybe the war will be over. It can't always go on." "I'll get well," I said."Valentini will fixme."
"He should with those mustaches. And, darling, when you're goingunder the ether just think about something else­­not us. Because people get very blabby under an anaesthetic."
"What should I think about?"
"Anything. Anythingbut us. Think about yourpeople. Or even any other girl." "No.''
"Say your prayers then. That ought to createa splendid impression." "Maybe I won't talk."
"That's true. Often people don't talk." "I won't talk."
"Don't brag, darling. Please don't brag. You're so sweet and you don't have to brag."
"I won't talk a word." 

"Now you're bragging, darling. You know youdon't need to brag. Just start your prayers or poetry or something when they tellyou to breathedeeply. You'll belovely that way and I'llbe so proud of you. I'm very proud of you anyway. You have such alovely temperature and you sleep like a little boy with your arm around the pillow and think it's me. Or is it some other girl? Some fine Italiangirl?"
"It's you."
"Of course it's me. Oh I do love you and Valentini will make you a fineleg. I'm glad I don't have to watch it."
"And you'll be on night duty to­night." "Yes. But you won't care."
"You wait and see."
"There, darling. Now you're all clean inside and out. Tell me. Howmany people have you everloved?"
"Nobody." "Not me even?" "Yes, you."
"Howmany others really?" "None."
"Howmany have you­­how do you say it?­­stayed with?" "None."
"You're lying to me." "Yes."
"It's all right. Keepright onlying to me. That's what I want you to do. Were they pretty?"
"I never stayed with any one."
"That's right. Were they very attractive?" "I don't know anything about it."
"You're just mine. That's true and you've never belonged to any oneelse. But I don't care if you have. I'm not afraid of them. But don't tell me about them. When a man stays with a girl when does she say howmuch it costs?"
"I don't know."
"Of course not. Does she say sheloves him? Tell me that. I want to know that." "Yes. If he wants her to."
"Does he say heloves her? Tell me please. It's important." "He does if he wants to."
"But you never did? Really?" "No."
"Not really. Tell me the truth." "No," I lied.
"You wouldn't," she said. "I knew you wouldn't. Oh, I love you, darling."
Outside the sun was up over the roofs and I could see the points of the cathedral with the sunlight on them. I was clean inside and outsideand waiting for the doctor.
"And that's it?" Catherine said. "She says just what he wants her to?" "Not always." 

"But I will. I'll say just what you wish and I'll do what you wish and then you will never want any other girls, will you?" Shelooked at me very happily. "I'll do what you want and say what you want and then I'll be a great success, won't I?"
"Yes."
"What would you like me to do now that you're allready?" "Come to the bed again."
"All right. I'll come."
"Oh, darling, darling, darling,"I said.
"You see," she said."I do anything you want." "You're so lovely."
"I'm afraid I'm not very good atit yet." "You're lovely."
"I want what you want. There isn't any me any more. Just what you want." "You sweet."
"I'm good. Aren't I good? You don't want any other girls, do you?" "No."
"You see? I'm good. I do what you want."

17

When I was awake after the operation I had not beenaway. You do not go away. They only choke you. It is not like dyingit is just a chemical choking so you do not feel, and afterward you might as well have been drunk except that when you throw up nothing comes but bile and you donot feel better afterward. I saw sandbags at the endof thebed. They were on pipes that came out of the cast. After a while I saw Miss Gage and she said, "How is it now?"

"Better," I said.
"He did a wonderful job on your knee." "How long did it take?"
"Two hours and a half." "Did I say anything silly?"
"Not a thing. Don't talk. Just be quiet."

I was sick and Catherine was right. It did not make any difference who was on night duty.
There were threeother patients in thehospital now, a thin boy in the Red Cross from Georgia with malaria, a nice boy, also thin, from NewYork, with malaria and jaundice, and a fine boy who had tried tounscrew the fuse­cap from a combination shrapneland high explosive shell fora souvenir. This was a shrapnel shellused by the Austrians in the mountains with a nose­cap which went on afterthe burst and exploded on contact.

Catherine Barkley was greatly likedby the nurses because she would do night duty indefinitely. She had quite a little work with themalaria people, the boy who had 

unscrewed the nose­cap was a friend ofours and never rang at night, unless it was necessary but between the times of working we were together. I loved her very much and she loved me. I slept in thedaytime and we wrote notes during the day when we were awake and sent them by Ferguson. Ferguson was a fine girl. I neverlearned anything about her except that she had a brotherin the Fifty­Second Division anda brotherin Mesopotamia and she was very good to Catherine Barkley.

"Will you come to our wedding, Fergy?" I said to her once. "You'll never get married."
"We will."
"No you won't." "Why not?"
"You'll fight before you'll marry." "We neverfight."
"You've time yet." "We don't fight."
"You'll die then. Fight or die. That's what people do. They don't marry."
I reached forher hand."Don't take hold of me," she said. "I'm not crying. Maybe you'll be allright you two. But watch out you don't get her in trouble. You get herin trouble and I'll kill you."
"I won't get herin trouble."
"Well watch out then. I hope you'll be all right. You have a good time." "We have a fine time."
"Don't fight then and don't get herinto trouble." "I won't."
"Mind you watch out. I don't want her with any of these war babies." "You're a fine girl, Fergy."
"I'm not. Don't try to flatter me. How does your leg feel?" "Fine."
"How is your head?" She touched the top of it with her fingers. It was sensitive like a foot that had gone to sleep.
"It's never bothered me."
"A bump like that could make you crazy. It never bothers you?" "No."
"You're a lucky young man. Have you theletter done? I'm goingdown." "It's here," I said.
"You ought to ask her not to do night duty fora while. She's getting very tired." "All right. I will."
"I want to doit but she won't let me. The others are glad tolet her haveit. You might give her just alittle rest."
"All right."
"Miss Van Campen spoke about you sleepingall the forenoons." "She would."
"It would be betterif you let her stay off nights a little while." "I want her to."
"You do not. But if you would make her I'd respect you forit." "I'll make her." 

"I don't believeit." She took the note and went out. I rang the bell and in alittle while Miss Gage came in.
"What's the matter?"
"I just wanted to talk to you. Don't you think Miss Barkley ought to gooff night duty for a while? She looks awfully tired. Why does she stay on so long?"
Miss Gagelooked at me.
"I'm a friend of yours," she said. "You don't have to talk to me like that." "What do you mean?"
"Don't be silly. Was that all you wanted?" "Do you want a vermouth?"
"All right. Then I have to go." She got out the bottle from the armoire and brought a glass.
"You take the glass," I said. "I'll drink out of the bottle." "Here's to you," said Miss Gage.
"What did Van Campen say about me sleeping late in the mornings?" "She just jawed about it. She calls you our privileged patient."
"To hell with her."
"She isn't mean," Miss Gage said. "She's just old and cranky. She neverliked you." "No."
"Well, Ido. And I'm your friend. Don't forget that." "You're awfully damned nice."
"No. I know who you think is nice. But I'm your friend. How does yourleg feel?" "Fine."
"I'll bring some cold mineral water topourover it. It must itch under the cast. It's hot outside."
"You're awful nice." "Does it itch much?" "No. It's fine."
"I'll fix those sandbags better." She leaned over. "I'm your friend." "I know you are."
"No you don't. But you will some day."
Catherine Barkley took three nights off night duty and then she came back on again. It was as though we met again after each of us had been away on along journey.

18

We had alovely time that summer. When I could go out we rode in a carriage in the park. Iremember the carriage, thehorse going slowly, and up ahead theback of the driver with his varnished highhat, and Catherine Barkley sitting beside me. If we let our hands touch, just the side of my hand touching hers, we were excited. Afterward when I could get aroundon crutches we went to dinnerat Biffi's or the Gran Italia and sat atthe tables outside on the floor of the galleria. The waiters came in and out and there were people 

going by and candles with shades on the tablecloths andafter we decided that we liked the Gran Italia best, George, the headwaiter,saved us a table. He was a fine waiter and we let him order the meal while we looked at the people, and the great galleria in the dusk, and eachother. We drank dry white capriiced in a bucket; although we tried many of the other wines, fresa, barbera and the sweet white wines. They had no wine waiter because of the war and George would smile ashamedly when I asked about wines like fresa.

"If you imagine a country that makes a wine becauseit tastes like strawberries," he said.
"Why shouldn't it?" Catherine asked. "It sounds splendid."
"You try it, lady," said George, "if you want to. But let me bring a little bottle of margaux for the Tenente."
"I'll try it too, George."
"Sir, I can't recommend you to. It doesn't even taste like strawberries." "It might," said Catherine. "It would be wonderfulif it did."
"I'll bring it," said George, "and when thelady is satisfied I'll takeit away."

It was not much of a wine. As he said, it did not even taste like strawberries. We went back to capri. One evening I was short of money and Georgeloaned me a hundred lire. "That's allright, Tenente,"he said. "I know how it is. I know how a man gets short. If you or the lady need money I've always got money."

After dinner we walked through the galleria, past the otherrestaurants and the shops with their steel shutters down, and stopped at the little place where they sold sandwiches; ham and lettuce sandwiches and anchovy sandwiches made of very tiny brown glazed rolls and only about as long asyour finger. They were to eat in thenight when we were hungry. Then we got intoan open carriage outside the galleria in front of the cathedral and rode to the hospital. At the door ofthe hospital the porter came out to help with the crutches. 

I paid the driver, and then we rode upstairs in the elevator. Catherinegot off at the lower floor where thenurses livedand I went on up and went down the hall on crutches to my room; sometimes I undressed and got intobed and sometimes I sat out on the balcony with my leg up onanother chair and watched the swallows over the roofs and waited for Catherine.When she came upstairs it was as though she hadbeenaway on a long trip andI went along the hall with heron the crutches and carried the basins and waited outside the doors, or went in with her; it depending on whether they were friends of ours or not, and when she haddone all there was to be done we sat out on thebalcony outside my room. 

Afterward Iwent to bed and when they were all asleep and she was sure they would not call she came in. I loved to take herhair down and she sat on the bed and kept very still, except suddenly she would dip down to kiss me while I was doing it, andI would take out thepins and lay them on the sheet and it would be loose and I would watch her while she kept very still and then take out the last two pins andit would all come down and she would drop her head and we would both be inside of it, and it was the feeling of inside a tent or behind a falls.

She had wonderfully beautiful hair and I would lie sometimes and watch her twistingit up in thelight that came in the open door andit shone even in thenight as water shines sometimes just before it is really daylight. She hada lovely face andbody and lovely smooth skin too.We would be lying together and I would touchher cheeks and her forehead and under her eyes and her chin and throat with thetips of my fingers and say, 

"Smooth as piano keys," and she would stroke my chin with her finger and say,"Smooth as emery paper and very hard on piano keys."
"Is it rough?"
"No, darling. I was justmaking fun of you."

It was lovely in the nights and if we could only touch each other we were happy. Besides all the big times we hadmany smallways of making love and we tried putting thoughts in the other one's head while we were in different rooms. It seemed to work sometimes but that was probably because we were thinking the same thing anyway.
We said to each other that we were married the first day she had come to the hospital and we counted months from our weddingday. I wanted to bereally married but Catherine said thatif we were they would send her away andif we merely started onthe formalities they would watch her and would break us up. We would have to be married under Italian law and the formalities were terrific. I wanted us to be married really because I worriedabout having a child if I thought about it, but we pretended to ourselves we were married anddid not worry much and I suppose I enjoyed not being married, really. I know one night we talkedabout it and Catherine said, "But, darling, they'd send me away."

"Maybe they wouldn't."
"They would. They'd send me home and then we would he apart until after the war."
"I'd come on leave."
"You couldn't get to Scotland and back on a leave. Besides, I won't leave you. What good would it do to marry now? We're really married. I couldn't be any more married."
"I only wanted to for you."
"There isn't any me. I'm you. Don't make up a separate me." "I thought girls always wanted to be married."
"They do. But, darling, I ammarried. I'mmarried to you. Don't I make you a good wife?"
"You're a lovely wife."
"You see, darling, Ihad one experience of waiting to be married." "I don't want to hear about it."
"You know I don't love any one but you. You shouldn't mind because some one else loved me."
"I do."

"You shouldn't be jealous of some one who's dead when you have everything." "No, but I don't want to hear about it."
"Poor darling. And I know you've been with all kinds of girls and it doesn't matter to me."
"Couldn't we be married privately some way?Then if anythinghappened to me orif you had a child."
"There's no way to be married except by church or state. We are marriedprivately. You see, darling,it would mean everything tome if I had any religion. But I haven't any religion."
"You gave me the Saint Anthony."
"That was forluck. Some one gave it to me." "Then nothing worries you?"
"Only being sent away from you. You're my religion. You're all I've got." 

"All right. But I'll marry you the day you say."
"Don't talk as though you had to make an honest woman ofme, darling. I'm a very honest woman. You can't be ashamed of something if you're only happy and proud of it. Aren't you happy?"
"But you won't everleave me for some one else."
"No, darling. I won't everleave you for some one else. I supposeall sorts of dreadfulthings will happen to us. But you don't have to worry about that."
"I don't. But I love you so much and you did love some one else before." "And what happened to him?"
"He died."
"Yes andif he hadn't I wouldn't have met you. I'm not unfaithful, darling. I've plenty of faults but I'm very faithful. You'll be sick of me I'll be so faithful."
"I'll have to go back to the front pretty soon."
"We won't think about that until yougo. You see I'm happy, darling, and we havea lovely time. I haven't been happy fora long time andwhen I met you perhaps I was nearly crazy. Perhaps I was crazy. But now we're happy and we love each other. Do let's please just be happy. You are happy, aren't you? Is there anything I do youdon't like? Can I do anything to please you? Would youlike me to take down my hair? Do you want to play?"
"Yes and come to bed."
"All right. I'll go and see the patients first."

19

The summerwent that way. I do not remember much about the days, except that they were hot and thatthere were many victories in the papers. I was very healthy and my legs healedquickly so that it was not very long after I was first on crutches before I was through with themand walking with a cane. Then I started treatments at the Ospedale Maggiore forbending the knees, mechanical treatments, baking in a box of mirrors with violet rays, massage, and baths. I went over there afternoons and afterward stopped at the café and had a drink andread the papers. I did not roam around the town; but wanted to get home to the hospital from the café. All I wanted was to see Catherine. Therest of the time I was glad to kill. Mostly I slept in themornings, andin the afternoons, sometimes, I went to the races, andlateto themechanotherapy treatments. Sometimes I stopped in at the AngloAmerican Club and sat in a deep leather­cushioned chairin front of the window and read the magazines. 

They would not let us go out together when I was off crutches becauseit was unseemly for a nurse to be seen unchaperoned with a patient who did not look as thoughhe needed attendance, so we were not together much in the afternoons. Although sometimes we could go out to dinnerif Ferguson went along. Miss Van Campen had accepted the status that we were great friends because she got a great amount of work out of Catherine. She thought Catherine came from very good people and that prejudiced herin her favor finally. Miss Van Campen admired family very much and came from an excellent family herself. The hospital was quite busy, too, and that kept her 

occupied. It was a hot summer and I knewmany people in Milan but always was anxious to get back home to the hospitalas soonas the afternoon was over. At the front they were advancing on the Carso, they hadtaken Kuk across from Plava and were taking the Bainsizza plateau. TheWest front did not sound so good. It looked as though the war were going on for along time. We were in the war now but I thought it would take a year to get any great amount of troops over and train them for combat. Next year would be a bad year, or a good year maybe. The Italians were using up an awful amount of men. I did not see how it could go on. Even if they took all the Bainsizza and Monte SanGabriele there were plenty of mountains beyond for the Austrians. I had seen them. 

All the highest mountains were beyond. On the Carso they were going forward but there were marshes and swamps down by the sea. Napoleon would have whipped the Austrians on theplains. He never would havefought them in the mountains. He would have let them come down and whipped them around Verona. Still nobody was whipping any one on the Western front. Perhaps wars weren't won any more. Maybe they went on forever. Maybe it was another Hundred Years'War. I put the paperback on the rack andleftthe club. I went down the steps carefully and walked upthe Via Manzoni. Outsidethe Gran Hotel I met old Meyers and his wifegettingout of a carriage. They were coming back from the races. She was a big­busted woman in black satin. He was short and old, with a white mustache and walked flat­footed witha cane.

"How do you do? How do you do?" She shook hands. "Hello," said Meyers. "Howwere the races?"
"Fine. They were just lovely. I had three winners." "How did you do?" I asked Meyers.
"All right. I had a winner."
"I never know how he does," Mrs. Meyers said. "He never tells me."
"I do all right," Meyers said. He was being cordial. "You ought to come out." While he talked you had the impressionthat he was not looking at you or that he mistook youfor some one else.
"I will," I said.
"I'm coming up to the hospital to see you," Mrs. Meyers said. "Ihave some things for my boys. You're all my boys. You certainly are my dear boys."
"They'llbe glad to see you."
"Those dearboys. You too. You're one of my boys." "I have to get back," I said.
"You give my love to all those dear boys. I'vegot lots of things tobring. I've some fine marsala and cakes."
"Good­by," I said. "They'll be awfully glad to see you."

"Good­by," said Meyers. "You come aroundto the galleria. You know where my table is. We're all there every afternoon." I went on up the street. I wanted to buy something at the Cova to take to Catherine. Inside, at the Cova, I bought a box of chocolate and while the girl wrapped it up I walkedover to the bar. There were a couple of British and some aviators. I had a martini alone, paid forit, picked up the box of chocolate at the outside counter and walkedon home toward the hospital. Outside the little bar up the street from the Scala there were some people I knew, a vice­consul, two fellows who studied singing, and Ettore Moretti, an Italian from San Francisco who was in the Italian army. I had a drink with them. One of the singers was named Ralph Simmons, and he was 

singing under the name of Enrico DelCredo. I never knew how well he could singbut he was always on the point of something very big happening. He was fat and looked shopworn around the nose and mouth as though he had hayfever. He had come back from singing in Piacenza. He had sung Toscaand it had been wonderful.
"Of course you've never heard me sing," he said. "When will you singhere?"
"I'll be at the Scala in the fall."
"I'll bet they throw the benches at you," Ettoresaid. "Did you hearhow they threw the benches at him in Modena?"
"It's a damned lie."
"They threw the benches at him," Ettore said. "I was there. I threw six benches myself."
"You're just a wop from Frisco."
"He can't pronounce Italian," Ettore said. "Everywhere he goes they throw the benches at him."
"Piacenza's the toughest house to singin the north of Italy," the other tenor said. "Believe me that's a tough little house to sing." This tenor's name was Edgar Saunders, and he sang under the name of Edouardo Giovanni.

"I'd like to be there to see them throw the benches at you." Ettore said. "You can't singItalian."
"He's a nut," said Edgar Saunders. "Allhe knows how to say is throw benches." "That's all they know how to do when you two sing," Ettore said. "Then when you
go to America you'lltell about your triumphs at the Scala. They wouldn't let you get by the first noteat the Scala."
"I'll sing at the Scala," Simmons said. "I'm going to singToscain October."
"We'll go, won't we, Mac?" Ettore said to the vice­consul. "They'll need somebody to protect them."
"Maybe the American army will be there to protect them," the vice­consul said. "Do you want another drink, Simmons? Youwant a drink, Saunders?"
"All right," said Saunders.
"I hear you're going to get the silver medal," Ettore said to me. "What kind of citation you going toget?"
"I don't know. I don't know I'm going toget it."
"You're going to get it. Oh boy, the girls at theCova will think you're fine then. They'll all think you killed two hundred Austrians or captured a whole trench by yourself. Believe me, I got to work for my decorations."
"Howmany have you got, Ettore?" asked the vice­consul.

"He's got everything," Simmons said. "He's the boy they're running the war for." "I've got the bronze twice and three silver medals," said Ettore. "But the papers on
only one have come through."
"What's the matter with the others?" asked Simmons.
"The action wasn't successful," said Ettore. "When the action isn't successful they hold up all the medals."
"Howmany times have you been wounded, Ettore?" 

"Three times bad. I got three wound stripes. See?" He pulled his sleeve around. The stripes were parallel silverlines on a black background sewed to the cloth of the sleeve about eight inches below the shoulder.
"You got one too," Ettore said to me. "Believeme they're fine to have. I'd rather have them than medals. Believe me, boy, when you get three you've got something. You only get one fora wound that puts you threemonths in the hospital."
"Where were you wounded, Ettore?" asked the vice­consul. Ettore pulledup his sleeve.

"Here," he showed the deep smooth red scar. "Here on my leg. I can't show you that because I got puttees on; and in the foot. There's dead bone in my foot that stinks right now. Every morning I take new little pieces out and it stinks all the time."
"What hit you?" asked Simmons.
"A hand­grenade. One of those potato mashers. It just blew the whole side of my foot off. You know those potato mashers?" He turned to me.
"Sure."

"I saw the son of a bitch throw it," Ettore said. "It knocked me down and I thought I was dead allright but those damn potato mashers haven't got anythingin them. I shot the son of a bitch with my rifle. I always carry a rifle so they can't tell I'm an officer."
"How did helook?" asked Simmons.
"That was the only one he had," Ettore said. "I don't know why he threw it. I guess he always wanted to throw one. He never saw any real fighting probably. I shot the son of a bitch all right."
"How did helook when you shot him?" Simmons asked.

"Hell, how should I know?" said Ettore. "I shot him in thebelly. I was afraid I'd miss him if I shot him in the head."
"How long have you been an officer, Ettore?" I asked.
"Two years. I'm going to be a captain. How long have you been alieutenant?" "Going on three years."
"You can't be a captain because you don't know the Italian language well enough," Ettore said. "You can talk but you can't read and write well enough. You got to havean education to be a captain.Why don't you goin the American army?"
"Maybe I will."
"I wish to God I could. Oh, boy, howmuch does a captain get, Mac?" "I don't know exactly. Around two hundred and fifty dollars, I think."
"Jesus Christ what I could do with two hundred and fifty dollars. You better get in the American army quick, Fred. See if you can't get me in."
"All right."
"I can command a company in Italian. I could learn it in English easy." "You'd be a general," said Simmons.
"No, I don't know enough to be a general. A general's got to know a hell of a lot. You guys think there ain't anythingto war. You ain't got brains enough to be a second­ class corporal."
"Thank God I don't have to be," Simmons said.
"Maybe you will if they roundup all you slackers. Oh, boy, I'd like to have you two in my platoon. Mac too. I'd make you my orderly, Mac."
"You're a great boy, Ettore," Mac said. "But I'm afraid you're a militarist." 

"I'll be a colonel before the war's over," Ettore said. "If they don't kill you."
"They won't kill me." He touchedthe stars at his collar with his thumb and forefinger. "See me do that?We always touch our stars if anybody mentions getting killed."
"Let's go, Sim," said Saunders standing up. "All right."
"So long," I said. "I have to go too." It was a quarter to six by the clock inside the bar. "Ciaou, Ettore."
"Ciaou, Fred," said Ettore. "That's pretty fine you're going to get the silver medal." "I don't know I'll get it."
"You'll getit allright, Fred. I heard you were going to get it all right." "Well, so long," I said."Keep out of trouble, Ettore."
"Don't worry about me. I don't drink and I don't run around. I'm no boozerand whorehound. I know what's good for me."
"So long," I said. "I'm glad you're going to be promoted captain."
"I don't haveto wait to be promoted. I'm going to be a captain for merit of war. You know. Three stars with the crossed swords and crown above. That's me."
"Good luck."
"Good luck. When you going back to the front?" "Pretty soon."
"Well, I'll see you around." "So long."
"So long. Don't take any bad nickels."
I walked on down a back Street that ledto a cross­cut to thehospital. Ettore was twenty­three. Hehad been brought up by an uncle in San Francisco and was visitinghis father and mother in Torino when war was declared. He had a sister, who had been sent to America withhim at the same time to live with the uncle, who would graduate from normal school this year. He was alegitimate hero who bored every one he met. Catherine could not stand him.

"We have heroes too," she said. "But usually, darling, they're much quieter." "I don't mind him."
"I wouldn't mind him if he wasn't so conceited and didn't bore me, and bore me, and bore me."
"He bores me."
"You're sweet to say so, darling. But you don't need to. You can picture him at the front and you know he's usefulbut he's so much the type of boy I don't care for."
"I know."
"You're awfully sweet to know, and I try and like him but he's a dreadful, dreadful boy really."
"He said this afternoon he was going to bea captain." "I'm glad," said Catherine. "That should please him." "Wouldn't youlike me to have some more exalted rank?"
"No, darling. I only want you to haveenough rank so that we're admitted to the betterrestaurants."
"That's just the rank I have." 

"You have a splendid rank. I don't want you to have any more rank. It might go to your head. Oh, darling, I'm awfully glad you're not conceited. I'd have married you evenif you were conceited but it's very restful to have a husband who's not conceited."
We were talking softly out on the balcony. Themoon was supposed to rise but there was a mist over the town andit did not come up and in a little while it started to drizzle and we came in. Outside the mist turned to rain andin a little while it was raining hard and we heard it drumming on the roof. Igot up and stood at the door to see if it was rainingin butit wasn't, so I left the door open.
"Who else did you see?" Catherine asked. "Mr. and Mrs. Meyers."
"They're a strangelot."
"He's supposed to have beenin the penitentiary at home. They let him out to die." "And helived happily in Milan forever after."
"I don't know how happily."
"Happily enough after jail I should think." "She's bringing some things here."
"She brings splendid things. Were you her dear boy?" "One of them."
"You are allher dear boys," Catherinesaid. "She prefers the dear boys. Listen toit rain."
"It's raining hard."
"And you'll always love me, won't you?" "Yes."
"And the rain won't make any difference?" "No."
"That's good. Because I'm afraid of therain."
"Why?" I was sleepy. Outside therain was falling steadily. "I don't know, darling. I've always been afraidof the rain." "I like it."
"I like to walk in it. But it's very hard on loving." "I'lllove you always."
"I'lllove you in the rain andin the snow and in the hail and­­ what else is there?" "I don't know. I guess I'm sleepy."
"Go to sleep, darling, and I'lllove you no matter how it is." "You're not really afraid of the rain are you?"
"Not when I'mwith you." "Why are you afraid of it?" "I don't know."
"Tell me."
"Don't makeme." "Tell me."
"No." "Tell me."
"All right. I'm afraid of the rain because sometimes I seeme dead in it." "No."
"And sometimes I see you deadin it." 

"That's more likely."
"No, it's not, darling. Because I can keep yousafe. I know I can. But nobody can help themselves."
"Please stop it. I don't want you to get Scotchand crazy tonight. We won't be together much longer."
"No, but I am Scotch and crazy. But I'll stopit. It's all nonsense." "Yes it's all nonsense."
"It's all nonsense. It's only nonsense. I'm not afraid of the rain. I'm not afraid of the rain. Oh, oh, God, I wish I wasn't." She was crying. I comforted herand she stopped crying. But outsideit kept on raining.

20

One day in the afternoon we went to the races. Ferguson went too and Crowell Rodgers, the boy who had been wounded in the eyes by the explosion of the shell nose­ cap. Thegirls dressed to go afterlunch while Crowelland I sat on the bed in his room and read the past performances of the horses and the predictions in the racing paper. Crowell's head was bandaged andhe did not care much about these races but read the racing paper constantly and kept track of all the horses for something to do. He said the horses were a terrible lot but they were all the horses we had. Old Meyers liked him and gave him tips. 

Meyers won on nearly every race but disliked to give tips because it brought down the prices. The racing was very crooked. Men who had beenruled off the turf everywhere else were racing in Italy. Meyers'information was good but I hated to ask him because sometimes he did not answer, and always you could see it hurt him to tell you, but he felt obligated to tell us for some reason and he hatedless to tell Crowell. Crowell's eyes had been hurt, one was hurt badly, and Meyers had trouble with his eyes and so he liked Crowell. Meyers never told his wife what horses he was playing and she won or lost, mostly lost, and talked all the time.

We four drove out to San Siro in an open carriage. It was alovely day and we drove out through the park and out along the tramway and out of town where the road was dusty. There were villas with iron fences andbig overgrown gardens and ditches with water flowingand green vegetable gardens with dust on the leaves. We could look across the plain and see farmhouses and the rich green farms with their irrigation ditches and the mountains to the north. 

There were many carriages goinginto the race track and the men at the gatelet us in without cards because we were in uniform. We left the carriage, bought programmes, andwalked across the infield and then across the smooth thick turf of the course to the paddock. Thegrand­stands were old and made of wood and the betting booths were under the stands and in a row out near the stables. There was a crowd of soldiers along the fence in theinfield. The paddock was fairly well filled with people and they were walkingthe horses around in a ring under the trees behind the grandstand. We saw people we knew and got chairs for Fergusonand Catherineand watched the horses. 

They went around, one after the other, their heads down, the grooms leading them. One horse, a purplish black, Crowell swore was dyed that color.We watched him and it seemed possible. He had only come out just before the bell rang to saddle. We looked him up in the programme from the number on the groom's arm and it was listed a black gelding named Japalac. The race was for horses that had never won a race worth one thousandlire or more. Catherine was sure his color had been changed. Ferguson said she could not tell. I thought he looked suspicious. We all agreed we ought to back him and pooled one hundredlire. The odds sheets showed he would pay thirty­five to one. Crowell went over and bought the tickets while we watched the jockeys ridearound once more and then go out under the trees to thetrack and gallop slowly up to the turn where the start was to be.

We went up in the grand­stand to watch the race. They had no elastic barrier at San Siro then and the starterlined up all the horses, they looked very small way up the track, and then sent them off with a crack of his long whip. They came past us with the black horse wellin front and on the turn he was runningaway from the others. I watched them on the far side with the glasses and saw the jockey fighting tohold him in but he could not hold him and when they came around the turn and into the stretch theblack horse was fifteen lengths ahead of the others. He went way on up and around the turn after the finish.

"Isn't it wonderful," Catherine said. "We'll have over three thousand lire. He must be a splendid horse."
"I hopehis colordoesn't run," Crowell said, "before they pay off."
"He was really a lovely horse," Catherine said. "I wonderif Mr. Meyers backed him." "Did you have the winner?"I called to Meyers. He nodded.
"I didn't," Mrs. Meyers said. "Who did you children bet on?" "Japalac."
"Really? He's thirty­five to one!" "We liked his color."
"I didn't. I thought he looked seedy. They told me not to back him." "He won't pay much," Meyers said.
"He's marked thirty­five to one in the quotes,"I said.
"He won't pay much. At the last minute," Meyers said, "they put a lot of money on him."

"No."
"Kempton and the boys. You'll see. He won't pay two to one."
"Then we won't get three thousand lire," Catherine said. "I don't like this crooked racing!"
"We'll get two hundredlire."
"That's nothing. That doesn't do us any good. I thought we were going to get three thousand."
"It's crooked and disgusting,"Ferguson said.
"Of course," said Catherine, "if it hadn't been crooked we'd never have backed him at all. But I would have likedthe three thousand lire."
"Let's go down and get a drink and see what they pay," Crowell said. We went out to where they posted the numbers and the bell rang to pay off and they put up 18.50 after Japalac to win.That meant he paid less than even money on a ten­lira bet. 

We went to the bar under the grand­stand and had a whiskey and soda apiece. We raninto a couple of Italians we knew and McAdams, the vice­consul, andthey came up with us when we joined the girls. The Italians were full of manners and McAdams talked to Catherine while we went down to bet again. Mr. Meyers was standing near the pari­ mutuel.
"Ask himwhat he played," I said to Crowell.
"What are you on, Mr. Meyers?" Crowell asked. Meyers took out his programme and pointed to the number five with his pencil.
"Do you mindif we play him too?" Crowellasked.
"Go ahead. Go ahead. But don't tell my wife I gave it to you." "Will you have a drink?" I asked.
"No thanks. I never drink."
We put a hundred lire on number five to win and a hundredto placeand then had another whiskey and soda apiece. I was feeling very good and we pickedup a couple more Italians, who each had a drink with us, and went back to the girls. These Italians were also very mannered and matchedmanners with thetwo we had collected before. In a little while no one could sit down. I gave thetickets to Catherine.

"What horse is it?"
"I don't know. Mr. Meyers' choice." "Don't you even know the name?"
"No. You can find it on the programme. Number five I think."
"You have touching faith," she said. The number five won but did not pay anything. Mr. Meyers was angry.
"You have to put up two hundred lire to make twenty," he said. "Twelve lire for ten. It's not worthit. My wife lost twenty lire."
"I'll go down with you," Catherine said to me. The Italians all stood up. We went downstairs and outto the paddock.
"Do you like this?" Catherine asked. "Yes. I guess I do."
"It's all right, I suppose," she said. "But, darling, I can't stand to see so many people."
"We don't see many."
"No. But those Meyers and the man from the bank with his wife and daughters­­" "He cashes my sight drafts," I said.
"Yes but some one else would if he didn't. Those last four boys were awful." "We can stay out here and watch the race from the fence."
"That will be lovely. And, darling, let's back ahorse we've never heard of and that Mr. Meyers won't be backing."
"All right."

We backed ahorse named Light For Me that finished fourth in afield of five. We leaned on the fence and watched the horses go by, their hoofs thudding as they went past, and saw the mountains off in the distance and Milan beyond the trees and the fields.
"I feel so much cleaner," Catherine said. Thehorses were coming back, through the gate, wet and sweating, the jockeys quieting them and ridingup todismount under the trees.
"Wouldn't youlike a drink?We could have one out here and see the horses." 

"I'll get them," I said.
"The boy willbring them," Catherine said. She put her handup and the boy came out from the Pagoda bar beside the stables. We sat down at a round iron table.
"Don't you like it better when we're alone?" "Yes," I said.
"I felt very lonely when they were all there." "It's grand here," I said.
"Yes. It's really a pretty course." "It's nice."
"Don't let me spoil your fun, darling. I'll go back whenever you want."
"No," I said. "We'll stay here andhave our drink. Then we'll godown and standat the water jump for the steeplechase."
"You're awfully good to me," she said.
After we had beenalone awhile we were gladto see the others again.We had a good time.

21

In September the first cool nights came, then the days were cool and the leaves on the trees in thepark began to turn colorand we knew the summer was gone. The fighting at the front went very badly and they could not take San Gabriele. The fighting on the Bainsizza plateau was overand by the middle of the month the fighting for San Gabriele was about over too. They could not take it. Ettore was gone back to the front. The horses were gone to Rome and there was no more racing. Crowell had gone to Rome too, to be sent back to America. There were riots twice in the town against the war and bad rioting in Turin. A British major at the club told me the Italians had lost one hundred and fifty thousand men on the Bainsizza plateau andon San Gabriele. 

He said they had lost forty thousandon the Carso besides. We had adrink and he talked. He said the fighting was over for the year down here andthat the Italians had bitten off more than they could chew. He said the offensive in Flanders was going to the bad. If they killed men as they did this fall the Allies would be cookedin another year. He said we were all cooked but we were all right as long as we did not know it. We were all cooked. The thing was not to recognize it. Thelast country to realize they were cooked would win the war. We had another drink. Was I on somebody's staff? 

No. He was. It was all balls. We were alone in the clubsitting back in one of the big leather sofas. His boots were smoothly polished dullleather. They were beautiful boots. He said it was all balls. They thought only in divisions and man­ power. They all squabbled about divisions and only killed them when they got them. They were all cooked. The Germans won the victories. By God they were soldiers. The old Hun was a soldier. But they were cooked too.Wewere all cooked. I asked about Russia. He said they were cooked already. I'd soon see they were cooked. Then the Austrians were cooked too. If they got some Hun divisions they could do it. Did he think they would attack this fall? Of course they would. The Italians were cooked. Everybody knew they were 

cooked. The old Hun would come down through the Trentino and cut the railway at Vicenza and then where would the Italians be? They tried that in 'sixteen, I said. Not with Germans. Yes, I said. But they probably wouldn't do that,he said. It was too simple. They'd try something complicated and get royally cooked. I had to go, I said. I had to get back to the hospital. "Good­by,"he said.Then cheerily, "Every sort of luck!" There was a great contrastbetween his world pessimism and personal cheeriness.

I stoppedat a barber shop and was shaved and went home to the hospital. My leg was as well as it would get for along time. I had beenup for examination threedays before.There were still some treatments to take before my course at the Ospedale.

Maggiore was finished and I walked along the side street practising not limping. An old man was cutting silhouettes under an arcade. I stopped to watch him. Two girls were posing and he cut their silhouettes together, snipping very fast and lookingat them, his head on one side. The girls were giggling. He showedme the silhouettes before he pasted them on white paper and handed them to the girls.

"They're beautiful," he said. "How about you, Tenente?"
The girls went away looking attheir silhouettes and laughing. They were nice­ looking girls. One of themworked in the wineshop across from the hospital.
"All right," I said. "Take your cap off." "No. With it on."
"It will not be so beautiful," the old man said. "But," he brightened, "it will be more military."
He snipped away at the black paper, then separated the two thicknesses and pasted the profiles on a card and handed them tome.
"Howmuch?"
"That's all right." He waved his hand. "I just made them for you." "Please." I brought out some coppers. "For pleasure."
"No. I did them for a pleasure. Give them to your girl." "Many thanks until we meet."
"Until I see thee."

I went on to the hospital. There were some letters, an official one, and some others. I was to have three weeks' convalescent leave and then return to the front. I readit over carefully. Well, that was that. The convalescent leave started October fourth when my course was finished.Three weeks was twenty­one days. That made October twenty­fifth. I told them I would not be in and went to the restaurant a little way up the street from the hospital for supper and read my letters and the Corriere Della Sera at the table. There was a letter frommy grandfather, containing family news, patriotic encouragement, a draft for two hundred dollars, and a few clippings; a dullletter from the priest at our mess, a letter from aman I knewwhowas flying with the French andhad gotten in with a wild gang and was telling about it, and a note from Rinaldi asking me how long I was going to skulk in Milano and what was all the news? 

He wanted me to bringhim phonograph records and enclosed alist. I drank a smallbottle of chianti with the meal, hada coffee afterward with a glass of cognac, finished the paper, put my letters in my pocket, left thepaper on the table with the tip and went out. In my room at the hospital I undressed, put on pajamas and a dressing­gown, pulled down the curtains on the door that openedonto the balcony and sitting up in bed read Bostonpapers from a pile Mrs. Meyers had left forher boys at the 

hospital. The ChicagoWhite Sox were winning the American League pennant and the New York Giants were leading the National League. Babe Ruth was a pitcherthen playing for Boston. Thepapers were dull, the news was local and stale, and the war news was all old. The Americannews was all training camps. I was glad I wasn't in a training camp. The baseball news was all I could read and Idid not have the slightestinterest in it. 

A number of papers together made it impossible to readwith interest.It was not very timely but I read at it fora while. I wondered if America really got into the war, if they would close down the major leagues. They probably wouldn't. There was still racing in Milanand the war could not be much worse. They had stopped racingin France. That was where our horse Japalac came from. Catherine was not due on duty until nine o'clock. I heard her passing along the floor when she first came on duty and once saw her pass in the hall. She went to several otherrooms and finally came into mine.

"I'm late, darling," she said. "There was alot to do. How are you?" I told her about my papers and the leave.
"That's lovely," she said. "Where do you want to go?" "Nowhere. I want to stay here."
"That's silly. You pick aplace to go and I'll come too." "Howwill you work it?"
"I don't know. But I will." "You're pretty wonderful."
"No I'm not. But lifeisn't hard to manage when you've nothing to lose." "How do you mean?"
"Nothing. I was only thinking how small obstacles seemed that once were so big." "I should think it might be hard to manage."
"No it won't, darling. If necessary I'll simply leave. But it won't come to that." "Where should we go?"
"I don't care. Anywhere you want. Anywhere we don't know people." "Don't you care where we go?"
"No. I'lllike any place."
She seemed upset and taut. "What's the matter, Catherine?" "Nothing. Nothing's the matter." "Yes there is."
"No nothing. Really nothing."
"I know there is. Tell me, darling. You can tell me." "It's nothing."
"Tell me."
"I don't want to. I'm afraid I'll make you unhappy or worry you." "No it won't."
"You're sure?It doesn't worry me but I'm afraid to worry you." "It won't if it doesn't worry you."
"I don't want to tell." "Tellit."
"Do I have to?" "Yes." 

"I'm going tohave a baby, darling. It's almost three months along. You're not worried, are you? Please please don't. You mustn't worry."
"All right."
"Is it all right?" "Of course."
"I did everything. I took everything but it didn't make any difference." "I'm not worried."
"I couldn't help it, darling, and I haven't worried about it. You mustn't worry or feel badly."
"I only worry about you."
"That's it. That's what you mustn't do. People have babies all the time. Everybody has babies. It's a natural thing."
"You're pretty wonderful."
"No I'm not. But you mustn't mind, darling. I'll try and not make trouble for you. I know I've made trouble now. But haven't I been a good girl untilnow? You never knew it, did you?"
"No."
"It will allbelike that. You simply mustn't worry. I can see you're worrying. Stop it. Stop it right away.Wouldn't you like a drink, darling? I know a drink always makes you feel cheerful."
"No. I feel cheerful. And you're pretty wonderful."
"No I'm not. But I'll fix everything to be together if you pick out a place for us to go. It ought to belovely in October. We'll have a lovely time, darling, and I'll write you every day while you're at the front."
"Where will you be?"
"I don't know yet. But somewhere splendid. I'll look after all that."
We were quiet awhile and did not talk. Catherine was sitting on thebed and I was looking at her but we did not touch each other. We were apart as when some one comes into a room and people are self­conscious. She put out herhand and took mine.
"You aren't angry are you, darling?" "No."
"And you don't feel trapped?" "Maybe a little. But not by you."
"I didn't mean by me. You mustn't be stupid. Imeant trapped at all." "You always feel trapped biologically."
She went away a long way without stirring or removing her hand. "'Always'isn't a pretty word."
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right. But you see I've never had a baby and I've never even loved any one. And I've tried tobe the way you wanted and then you talk about 'always."
"I could cutoff my tongue," I offered.
"Oh, darling!" she came back fromwherever she had been. "You mustn't mindme." We were both togetheragain and the self­consciousness was gone. "We really are the same one and we mustn't misunderstand on purpose."
"We won't." 

"But people do. They love each other and they misunderstand on purpose and they fight and then suddenly they aren't the same one."
"We won't fight."
"We mustn't. Because there's only us two and in the world there's all the rest of them. If anything comes between us we're gone and then they haveus."
"They won't get us,"I said. "Because you're too brave. Nothing ever happens to the brave."
"They die of course." "But only once."
"I don't know. Who said that?"
"The coward dies a thousand deaths,the brave but one?" "Of course.Who said it?"
"I don't know."
"He was probably a coward," she said. "He knew a great deal about cowards but nothing about the brave. The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he's intelligent. He simply doesn't mention them."
"I don't know. It's hard to seeinside the head of the brave." "Yes. That's how they keep that way."
"You're an authority."
"You're right, darling. That was deserved." "You're brave."
"No," she said. "But I would like to be."
"I'm not," I said. "I know where I stand. I've been out long enough to know. I'm like a ball­playerthat bats two hundred andthirty and knows he's no better."
"What is a ball­playerthat bats two hundred and thirty? It's awfully impressive." "It's not. It means a mediocre hitterin baseball."
"But still a hitter," she prodded me.
"I guess we're both conceited," I said."But you are brave." "No. But I hope to be."
"We're both brave," I said. "And I'm very brave when I've had a drink."
"We're splendid people," Catherine said. She went over to the armoire and brought me the cognac and a glass. "Havea drink, darling," she said. "You've been awfully good."

"I don't really want one." "Take one."
"All right." I poured the water glass a third fullof cognac and drank it off. "That was very big," she said. "I know brandy is for heroes. But you shouldn't
exaggerate."
"Where will we live after the war?"
"In an old people's home probably," she said. "For three years I lookedforward very childishly to the war ending at Christmas. But now I look forward till when our son will bea lieutenant commander."
"Maybe he'll be a general."
"If it's an hundred years' war he'll have time to try both of the services." "Don't you want a drink?"
"No. It always makes you happy, darling, and it only makes me dizzy." "Didn't you everdrink brandy?" 

"No, darling. I'm a very old­fashioned wife."
I reached down to the floor for the bottle and poured another drink.
"I'd bettergo tohave a look at your compatriots," Catherine said. "Perhaps you'll read the papers until I come back."
"Do you have to go?" "Now or later."
"All right. Now."
"I'll come back later."
"I'll have finished the papers,"I said.

22

It turned cold that night and the next day it was raining. Coming home from the Ospedale Maggiore it rained very hard andI was wet when I came in. Up in my room the rain was coming down heavily outside onthebalcony, and the wind blew it against the glass doors. I changed my clothingand drank some brandy but thebrandy did not taste good. I felt sick in the night andin the morning after breakfast I was nauseated.

"There is no doubt about it," thehouse surgeon said. "Look at the whites of his eyes, Miss."

Miss Gagelooked. They had me look in aglass. The whites of the eyes were yellow andit was the jaundice. I was sick for two weeks with it. For that reason we did not spend a convalescent leave together. We had planned to go to Pallanza onLago Maggiore. Itis nice there in the fall when theleaves turn. There are walks you can take and you can troll for trout in thelake. It would have been better than Stresabecause there are fewer people at Pallanza. Stresa is so easy to get to from Milan that there are always people you know. There is a nice village at Pallanza and you can row out to the islands where the fishermen live and there is a restaurant on the biggest island. But we did not go.

One day while I was in bed with jaundice Miss Van Campen came in the room, opened the doorinto the armoire and saw the empty bottles there. I had sent a load of them down by the porter and I believe she must have seen them goingout and come up to find some more. They were mostly vermouth bottles, marsala bottles, capri bottles, empty chianti flasks and a few cognac bottles. The porter had carried out thelarge bottles, those that had held vermouth, and the straw­covered chianti flasks, andleftthe brandy bottles for the last. It was the brandy bottles and a bottle shaped like a bear, which had held kümmel, that Miss Van Campen found. The bear shaped bottle enraged her particularly. She held it up, the bear was sitting up onhis haunches with his paws up, there was a cork in his glass head and a few sticky crystals at the bottom. I laughed.

"It is kümmel," I said. "The best kümmel comes in those bearshaped bottles. It comes from Russia."
"Those are allbrandy bottles, aren't they?" Miss Van Campen asked. "I can't see them all,"I said. "But they probably are."
"How long has this been goingon?" 

"I bought them and brought them in myself," I said. "I have hadItalian officers visit me frequently and I have kept brandy to offer them."
"You haven't been drinkingit yourself?" she said. "I have also drunk it myself."
"Brandy," she said."Eleven empty bottles of brandy and that bear liquid." "Kümmel."
"I will send for some one to take them away. Those are all the empty bottles you have?"
"For the moment."

"And I was pitying you having jaundice. Pity is something that is wasted on you." "Thank you."
"I suppose you can't be blamed for not wanting to go back to the front. But I should think you would try somethingmore intelligent than producing jaundice with alcoholism."
"With what?"
"With alcoholism. You heard me say it." I did not say anything. "Unless you find something else I'm afraid you will have to go back to the front when you are through with your jaundice. I don't believe self­inflicted jaundice entitles you to a convalescent leave."
"You don't?" "I do not."

"Have you ever had jaundice, Miss Van Campen?" "No, but I have seen a great deal ofit."
"You noticedhow the patients enjoyed it?" "I suppose it is better than the front."
"Miss Van Campen," I said, "did you ever know a manwho triedto disable himself by kicking himself in the scrotum?"
Miss Van Campen ignored the actualquestion. She had to ignore it orleave the room. She was not ready to leave because she had disliked me for a long time and she was now cashingin.

"I have known many men to escape the front through self­inflicted wounds."
"That wasn't the question. I have seen self­inflicted wounds also. I asked you if you had ever known a manwho had tried to disable himself by kicking himself in the scrotum. Because thatis the nearest sensation to jaundice and it is a sensation that I believe few women have ever experienced. That was why I asked you if you had ever had the jaundice, Miss Van Campen, because­­" Miss Van Campen left the room. Later Miss Gage came in.

"What did you say to Van Campen? She was furious."
"We were comparing sensations. I was goingto suggest that she hadnever experienced childbirth­­"
"You're a fool," Gage said. "She's after your scalp."
"She has my scalp," I said. "She's lost me my leave and she might try and get me court­martialled. She's mean enough."
"She neverliked you," Gage said. "What's it about?"
"She says I've drunk myself into jaundice so as not to go back to the front." "Pooh," said Gage."I'll swear you've never taken a drink. Everybody will swear
you've never taken a drink." "She found the bottles." 

"I've told you a hundred times to clear out those bottles. Where are they now?" "In the armoire."
"Have you a suitcase?"
"No. Put them in that rucksack."
Miss Gage packed the bottles in therucksack. "I'll give them to the porter," she said. She started for the door.
"Just a minute," Miss Van Campen said. "I'll take those bottles." She had the porter with her. "Carry them, please," she said. "I want to show them to the doctor when I make my report."
She went down the hall. The porter carried the sack. He knew what was in it. Nothing happened except that I lost my leave.

23

The night I was to return tothe front I sent the porter down to hold a seat for me on the train when it came from Turin. Thetrain was to leave at midnight. It was made up at Turin and reached Milan about half­past ten at night and lay in the stationuntil time to leave. You had to be there when it came in, to get a seat. The porter took a friend with him, amachine­gunner on leave who worked in a tailor shop, and was sure that between them they could hold a place. I gave themmoney for platform tickets and had them take my baggage.There was a big rucksack and two musettes.

I said good­by at the hospital at about five o'clock and went out.The porter had my baggage in his lodge and I told him I would be at the station a little before midnight. His wife called me "Signorino" and cried. She wiped hereyes and shook hands and then cried again. I patted her on the back and she cried once more. She had done my mending and was a very short dumpy, happy­faced womanwith white hair. When shecried her whole face went to pieces. I went down to the corner where there was a wine shop and waited insidelooking out the window. It was dark outsideand cold and misty. I paid for my coffee and grappa and I watched the people goingby in thelight from the window. I saw Catherineand knocked onthe window. 

She looked, sawme and smiled, and I went out to meet her. She was wearinga dark blue capeand a soft felt hat. We walkedalong together, along the sidewalk past the wine shops, thenacross the market square and up the street andthrough the archway to the cathedral square. There were streetcar tracks and beyond them was the cathedral. It was white and wet in the mist. We crossed the tram tracks. On ourleft were the shops, their windows lighted, and the entrance to the galleria.There was a fog in the square and when we came close to the front of the cathedralit was very big and the stone was wet.

"Would you like to goin?"
"No," Catherine said. We walked along. There was a soldier standing with his girlin the shadow of one of the stonebuttresses ahead of us and we passed them. They were standing tight up against the stone and he had put his cape around her.
"They're like us," I said. 

"Nobody is like us," Catherine said. She did not mean it happily. "I wish they had some place to go."
"It mightn't do them any good."
"I don't know. Everybody ought to have some place to go."

"They have the cathedral," Catherine said. We were past it now. We crossed the far end of the square and lookedback atthe cathedral. It was finein the mist. We were standingin front of the leather goods shop. There were ridingboots,a rucksack and ski boots in the window. Each article was set apart as anexhibit; the rucksack in the centre, the ridingboots on one side and the ski boots on the other. Theleather was dark and oiled smooth as a used saddle. Theelectric light made highlights on the dull oiled leather.

"We'll ski some time."
"In two months there will be ski­ing at Mflrren," Catherine said. "Let's go there."
"All right," she said.We went on past other windows and turned down a side street. "I've never been this way."
"This is the way I go to the hospital," I said. It was a narrow street and we kept on the right­hand side. There were many people passing in the fog. There were shops and all the windows were lighted. Welooked in a window at a pile of cheeses. I stoppedin front of an armorer's shop.
"Come in a minute. I have to buy a gun." "What sort of gun?"
"A pistol." We went in and I unbuttoned my belt andlaid it with the emply holster on the counter. Two women were behindthe counter. The women brought out several pistols.

"It must fit this," I said, opening the holster. Itwas a gray leather holster and I had boughtit second­hand to wear in the town.
"Have they good pistols?" Catherineasked.
"They're allabout the same. Can I try this one?" I askedthe woman.
"I have no place now to shoot," she said. "But it is very good. You will not make a mistake with it."
I snapped it andpulled back the action. The spring was rather strong but it worked smoothly. I sightedit and snapped it again.
"It is used," the woman said. "It belonged to an officer who was an excellent shot." "Did you sellit to him?"

"Yes."
"How did you getit back?" "From his orderly."
"Maybe you havemine," I said."Howmuch is this?" "Fifty lire. Itis very cheap."
"All right. I want two extra clips and a box of cartridges." She brought them from under the counter.
"Have you any need fora sword?" sheasked. "I have some used swords very cheap."
"I'm going tothe front," I said.
"Oh yes, then you won't need a sword," she said.
I paid for the cartridges and the pistol, filled the magazine and put it in place, put the pistolin my empty holster, filled the extra clips with cartridges and put themin the 

leather slots on the holster and then buckled on my belt. Thepistol felt heavy onthe belt. Still, I thought, it was better tohave aregulation pistol. You could always get shells.
"Nowwe're fully armed," I said. "That was the one thingI had to remember to do. Some one got my other one going to the hospital."
"I hopeit's a good pistol," Catherine said. "Was there anything else?" the woman asked. "I don't believe so."
"The pistol has a lanyard," she said. "So I noticed."
The woman wanted to sell something else. "You don't need a whistle?"
"I don't believe so."

The woman said good­by and we went out onto the sidewalk. Catherine looked in the window. The woman looked out and bowed to us.
"What are thoselittle mirrors set in wood for?"
"They're for attractingbirds. They twirl them out in the field andlarks seethem and come out and the Italians shoot them."
"They are an ingenious people," Catherine said. "You don't shoot larks do you, darling, in America?"
"Not especially."

We crossed the street and started to walk up the other side.
"I feel better now," Catherine said. "I felt terrible when we started." "We always feel good when we're together."
"We always willbe together."
"Yes, except that I'm going away at midnight." "Don't think aboutit, darling."
We walked on up the street. Thefog made the lights yellow. "Aren't you tired?" Catherineasked.
"How about you?"

"I'm allright. It's fun to walk." "But let's not do it toolong." "No."
We turned down a side street where there were no lights and walkedin the street. I stopped and kissed Catherine. While I kissedher I felt herhand on my shoulder. She had pulled my cape aroundher so it covered both of us. We were standing in the street against a high wall.
"Let's go some place," I said.

"Good," said Catherine. We walked onalong the street untilit came out onto a wider street that was besidea canal. On the other side was a brick walland buildings. Ahead, down the street, I saw a streetcar cross a bridge.
"We can geta cab up at the bridge," I said. We stood on the bridge in the fog waitingfor a carriage. Several streetcars passed, full of people going home. Then a carriage came along but there was some one in it. Thefog was turningto rain.
"We could walk or take a tram," Catherinesaid. "One will be along," I said. "They go by here." "Here one comes," she said. 

The driver stopped his horse and lowered themetal sign on his meter. The top of the carriage was up and there were drops ofwater on the driver's coat. His varnished hat was shiningin the wet. We sat back in the seat together and the top of the carriage made it dark.
"Where did you tell him to go?"
"To the station. There's a hotel across from the station where we can go." "We can go the way we are?Without luggage?"
"Yes," I said.
It was a long ride to the station up side streets in the rain.

"Won't we have dinner?" Catherine asked. "I'm afraid I'll behungry." "We'll haveit in ourroom."
"I haven't anything to wear. I haven't even a night­gown." "We'll get one," I said and called to the driver.
"Go to the Via Manzoni and up that." He nodded and turned off to the left at the next corner. On the big street Catherine watched for a shop.
"Here's a place," she said. I stopped the driver and Catherine got out, walked across the sidewalk and went inside. I sat back in the carriage and waited for her. It was raining and I could smell the wet street and the horse steamingin therain. She came back with a package and got in and we drove on.
"I was very extravagant,darling," she said, "but it's a fine night­gown."

At the hotel I asked Catherineto wait in the carriage while I went in and spoke to the manager. There were plenty of rooms. Then I went out to the carriage, paid the driver, and Catherine and I walkedin together. The small boy in buttons carried the package.
The manager bowed us toward the elevator. There was much red plush and brass. The manager went up in the elevator with us.
"Monsieur and Madame wish dinnerin theirrooms?" "Yes. Will you have the menu brought up?" I said.
"You wish something specialfor dinner. Some game or a soufflé?"

The elevator passed three floors with a click each time, then clickedand stopped. "What have you as game?"
"I could get a pheasant, or a woodcock."
"A woodcock," I said.We walked down the corridor. The carpet was worn. There were many doors. The manager stopped andunlocked a doorand openedit.
"Here you are. A lovely room."
The smallboy in buttons put thepackage on the table in the centre of theroom. The manager opened the curtains.
"It is foggy outside," he said. The room was furnished in red plush. There were many mirrors, two chairs and a large bed witha satin coverlet. A doorled to the bathroom.

"I will send up the menu," the manager said. He bowed and went out.
I went to the window andlooked out, then pulled a cord that shut the thick plush curtains. Catherine was sitting on thebed, lookingat the cut glass chandelier. She had taken her hat off and herhair shone under the light. She saw herself in one of the mirrors and puther hands toherhair. I saw her in three other mirrors. She did not look happy. She lether cape fall on thebed.
"What's the matter, darling?" 

"I never felt like a whore before," she said. I went overto the window and pulled the curtain aside and looked out. I had not thought it would be like this.
"You're not a whore."
"I know it, darling. But it isn't nice to feel like one." Her voice was dry and flat. "This was the best hotel we could get in," I said. Ilookedout the window. Across
the square were the lights of the station. There were carriages goingby on the street and I saw the trees in the park. The lights from the hotel shone on the wet pavement. Oh, hell, I thought, do we have to argue now?
"Come over here please," Catherine said. The flatness was all gone out of her voice. "Come over, please. I'm a good girl again." I looked overat thebed. She was smiling.
I went over and sat on the bed besideher and kissed her. "You're my good girl."
"I'm certainly yours," she said.

After we had eaten we felt fine, andthen after, we felt very happy and in a little time the room felt like our own home. My room at the hospital had been our own home and this roomwas our home too in the same way.

Catherine wore my tunic over her shoulders while we ate.We were very hungry and the meal was good and we drank a bottle of Capri and a bottle of St. Estephe. I drank most of it but Catherine drank some and it made her feel splendid. For dinner we had a woodcock with soufflé potatoes and purée demarron, a salad, and zabaione for dessert.
"It's a fine room," Catherine said. "It's a lovely room. We should have stayed here all the time we've beenin Milan."
"It's a funny room. But it's nice."
"Vice is a wonderful thing," Catherine said. "The people who goin forit seem to have good tasteabout it. The redplush is really fine. It's just the thing. And the mirrors are very attractive."
"You're a lovely girl."
"I don't know how a room like this would be for waking upin the morning. But it's really a splendid room." I poured another glass of St. Estephe.
"I wish we could do somethingreally sinful," Catherine said. "Everything we do seems so innocent and simple. I can't believe we do anything wrong."
"You're a grand girl."
"I only feelhungry. I get terribly hungry." "You're a fine simple girl," I said.
"I am a simple girl. No one everunderstood it except you."
"Once when I first met you I spent an afternoon thinking how we would go to the Hotel Cavour together and how it would be."
"That was awfully cheeky of you. This isn't the Cavouris it?" "No. They wouldn't havetaken us in there."
"They'lltake us in some time. But that's how we differ, darling. I never thought about anything."
"Didn't you everat all?" "A little," she said.
"Oh you're a lovely girl."
I poured another glass of wine. 

"I'm a very simple girl," Catherine said.
"I didn't think so at first. I thought you were a crazy girl."
"I was a little crazy. But I wasn't crazy in any complicated manner. I didn't confuse you did I, darling?"
"Wineis a grand thing," I said. "It makes you forget all the bad."
"It's lovely," said Catherine. "But it's given my father gout very badly." "Have you afather?"
"Yes," said Catherine. "He has gout. You won't ever have to meet him. Haven't you a father?"
"No," I said. "A step­father." "Will I like him?"
"You won't have to meet him."
"We have such a finetime," Catherine said. "Idon't take any interest in anything else any more. I'm so very happy married to you."
The waiter came and took away the things. After a while we were very still and we could hear the rain. Down below on the street a motor car honked.
"'But at my back I always hear Time's wingedchariot hurrying near,' " I said. "I know that poem," Catherine said. "It's by Marvell. But it's about a girl who
wouldn't live with a man."
My head felt very clear and cold and I wantedto talk facts. "Where will you have the baby?"
"I don't know. The best placeI can find." "Howwill you arrangeit?"
"The best way I can. Don't worry, darling. We may have severalbabies before the war is over."
"It's nearly time to go."
"I know. You can make it time if you want." "No."
"Then don't worry, darling. You were fine untilnow and now you're worrying." "I won't. How often will you write?"
"Every day. Do they read yourletters?" "They can't read English enough to hurt any."
"I'll make them very confusing," Catherine said. "But not too confusing."
"I'll justmake them a little confusing." "I'm afraid we have to start to go." "All right, darling."
"I hate to leave our fine house." "So do I."
"But we have to go."
"All right. But we're never settledin our home very long." "We will be."
"I'll have a fine home for you when you come back." "Maybe I'll be back right away."
"Perhaps you'll be hurt just a little in the foot." "Or the lobe of the ear." 

"No I want your ears the way they are." "And not my feet?"
"Your feethave been hit already." "We have togo, darling. Really." "All right. You go first."

24

We walked down the stairs insteadof taking the elevator. The carpet on the stairs was worn. I had paid for the dinner when it came up and the waiter, who had brought it, was sitting on a chair near the door. He jumped up and bowed and I went with him into the sideroom and paid the bill for the room. The manager had remembered me as a friend and refused payment in advance but when he retired he had remembered to have the waiter stationed at the door so that I should not get out without paying. I suppose that had happened; even with his friends. One had so many friends in a war.

I asked the waiter to get us a carriage and he took Catherine's package that I was carryingand went out with an umbrella. Outside through the window we saw him crossing the street in the rain.We stood in the side room and looked out the window.

"How do you feel, Cat?" "Sleepy."
"I feel hollow and hungry." "Have you anything to eat?" "Yes, in my musette."
I saw the carriage coming. It stopped, the horse's head hanging in the rain, and the waiter stepped out, opened his umbrella, andcame toward the hotel. We met him at the door and walked out under the umbrella down the wet walk to the carriage at the curb. Water was runningin the gutter.
"There is your package on the seat," the waiter said. He stood with the umbrella until we were in and I had tipped him.

"Many thanks. Pleasant journey," he said. The coachman lifted the reins and the horse started.The waiter turned away under the umbrella and went toward the hotel.We drove down the street and turned to theleft, then came around to the right in front of the station. There were two carabinieri standing under the light just out of the rain. Thelight shone on their hats. The rain was clear and transparent against the light from the station. A porter came out from under the shelter of the station, his shoulders up against the rain.

"No," I said. "Thanks. Idon't needthee."
He went back underthe shelter of the archway. I turned to Catherine. Her face was in the shadow from the hood of the carriage.
"We might as well say good­by." "I can't go in?"
"No." "Good­by, Cat." 

"Will you tell him the hospital?" "Yes."
I told thedriverthe address to drive to. He nodded.
"Good­by," I said. "Take good care of yourself and young Catherine." "Good­by, darling."
"Good­by," I said. I stepped out into the rain and the carriage started. Catherine leaned out and I saw her face in thelight. She smiled and waved. The carriage went up the street, Catherine pointedin toward the archway. I looked, there were only the two carabinieriand the archway. I realized she meant for me to get in out of the rain. I went in and stood and watched the carriage turn the corner. Then I started through the station and down the runway to the train.

The porter was on the platform looking for me. I followed him into the train, crowding past people andalong the aisle and in through a door to where the machine­ gunner satin the corner of a full compartment. My rucksack and musettes were above his head on the luggage rack. There were many men standingin the corridorand the men in the compartment alllooked atus when we came in. There were not enough places in the train and every one was hostile. The machine­gunner stood up for me to sit down. Some one tapped me on the shoulder. I looked around. It was a very tallgaunt captain of artillery with a red scar along his jaw. He had looked throughthe glass on the corridor and then come in.

"What do you say?" I asked. I hadturned andfaced him. He was taller thanI and his face was very thin underthe shadow of his cap­visorand the scar was new and shiny. Every onein the compartment was looking atme.

"You can't do that," he said. "You can't have a soldier save you a place." "I have done it."
He swallowed and I saw his Adam's apple goup and then down. The machine­ gunner stoodin front of the place. Other men lookedin through the glass. No one in the compartment said anything.

"You have no right to do that. I was here two hours before you came." "What do you want?"
"The seat." "So do I."
I watched his face and could feel the whole compartment against me. I did not blame them. Hewas in theright. But I wanted the seat. Still noone said anything.
Oh, hell, I thought.

"Sit down, Signor Capitano," I said. The machine­gunner moved out of the way and the tall captain sat down. He looked at me. His face seemed hurt. But he had the seat. "Get my things," I said to the machine­gunner.We went outin the corridor. The train was full and I knew there was no chance of a place. I gave the porterand the machine­gunner tenlire apiece. They went down the corridorand outsideon the platform looking in the windows but there were no places.
"Maybe some will getoff at Brescia," the porter said.

"More will get on at Brescia," said the machine­gunner. I said good­by to them and we shook hands and they left. They bothfelt badly. Inside the train we were all standing in the corridor when the train started. I watched the lights of the station andthe yards as we went out. It was still raining and soon the windows were wet and you could not see out. 

Later I slept onthe floor of the corridor; first putting my pocket­book with my money and papers in it inside my shirt and trousers so that it was inside the leg of my breeches. I slept all night, waking at Brescia and Verona when more men got on thetrain, but going back to sleep at once. I had my head on one of the musettes and my arms around the other and I could feel the pack and they could all walk over me if they wouldn't step on me. Men were sleepingon the floorall down the corridor. Others stood holding on tothe window rods orleaning against the doors. That train was always crowded.

BOOK THREE

25


Now in the fall the trees were all bare and theroads were muddy. I rode to Gorizia from Udine on a camion. We passed other camions on the road and Ilooked at the country. The mulberry trees were bare and the fields were brown. There were wet dead leaves on the road from the rows of bare trees and men were working on theroad, tamping stonein the ruts from piles of crushed stone along the side of the road between the trees. We saw the town with a mist overit that cut off the mountains. We crossed the river and I saw thatit was runninghigh. Ithad been rainingin the mountains. 

We came into the town past the factories and then the houses and villas and I saw that many more houses had been hit. On a narrow street we passed a British Red Cross ambulance. The driver wore a cap and his face was thin and very tanned. I did not know him. I got down from the camionin the big square in front of the Town Major's house, the driverhanded down my rucksack and I put it on and swung on the two musettes and walked toour villa. It did not feellike a homecoming.

I walked down the damp gravel driveway looking at the villa through the trees. The windows were all shut but the door was open. I went in and found the major sitting at a table in the bare room with maps and typed sheets of paperon the wall.

"Hello," he said. "How are you?" He looked older and drier. "I'm good," I said."How is everything?"
"It's all over,"he said."Take off your kit and sit down." I put my pack and the two musettes on the floor and my cap on the pack. I brought the other chair overfrom the wall and sat down by the desk.
"It's been a bad summer," the major said. "Are you strong now?" "Yes."
"Did you ever get the decorations?"
"Yes. I got them fine. Thank you very much." "Let's see them."
I opened my cape so he could see the two ribbons. 

"Did you getthe boxes with the medals?" "No. Just the papers."
"The boxes will come later. That takes more time." "What do you want me to do?"
"The cars are all away. There are six up north at Caporetto. You know Caporetto?" "Yes," I said. I remembered it as alittle white town with a campanile in a valley. It
was a clean little town and there was a fine fountain in the square.
"They are working from there. There are many sick now. The fighting is over." "Where are the others?"
"There are two up in the mountains andfour still onthe Bainsizza. The othertwo ambulance sections are in the Carso with thethird army."
"What do you wish me to do?"
"You can go and take over the four cars on the Bainsizza if youlike. Gino has been up there a long time. You haven't seen it up there, have you?"
"No."
"It was very bad. We lost three cars." "I heard aboutit."
"Yes, Rinaldi wrote you." "Where is Rinaldi?"
"He is here at the hospital. He has had a summer and fall ofit." "I believeit."
"It has been bad," the major said. "You couldn't believehow bad it's been. I've often thought you were lucky to be hit when you were."
"I know I was."
"Next year will be worse," the major said. "Perhaps they will attack now. They say they are to attack but I can't believeit. It is too late. You saw the river?"
"Yes. It's high already."
"I don't believethey will attack now that therains have started. We will have the snow soon. What about your countrymen? Will there be other Americans besides yourself?"
"They are training an army of ten million."
"I hope we get some of them. But the French will hog them all.We'll never get any down here. Allright. You stay here to­night and go outto­morrowwith thelittle car and send Gino back. I'll send somebody with you that knows the road. Gino will tell you everything. They are shelling quite alittle stillbut it is all over. You will want to see the Bainsizza."
"I'm glad to see it. I am glad to beback with you again, Signor Maggiore."
He smiled. "Youare very good to say so. I am very tired of this war. If I was away I do not believe I would come back."
"Is it so bad?"
"Yes. It is so bad and worse. Go get cleanedup and find your friend Rinaldi."


I went out and carried my bags up the stairs. Rinaldi was not in the room but his things were there and I sat down on the bedand unwrapped my puttees and took the shoe off my right foot. Then I lay back on the bed. I was tired and my right foot hurt. It seemed silly tolie on the bed with one shoe off, so I sat up andunlaced the other shoe and droppedit on the floor, thenlay back on the blanket again. Theroomwas stuffy with  the window closed but I was too tired to get up and openit. I sawmy things were all in one cornerof the room. Outside it was getting dark. I lay on the bedand thought about Catherineand waited for Rinaldi. 

I was going to try not to think about Catherine except at night before I went to sleep. But now I was tired and there was nothingto do, so I lay and thoughtabout her. I was thinking about her when Rinaldi came in. He looked just the same. Perhaps he was a little thinner.

"Well, baby,"he said. I sat up on the bed. He came over, sat down and put his arm around me. "Good old baby." He whacked me on the back andI held both his arms.
"Old baby," he said. "Let me see your knee." "I'll have to take off my pants."

"Take off your pants, baby. We're all friends here. I want to see what kind of a job they did." I stoodup, took off the breeches and pulled off the knee­brace. Rinaldi sat on the floorand bent the knee gently back and forth. He ran his finger along the scar; put his thumbs together over the kneecap and rocked the kneegently with his fingers.

"Is that all the articulation you have?" "Yes."
"It's a crime to send you back. They ought to get complete articulation." "It's a lot better than it was. It was stiff as a board."
Rinaldi bent it more. I watched his hands. He had fine surgeon's hands. I looked at the top of his head, his hair shiny and parted smoothly. He bent the knee too far.

"Ouch!" I said.
"You ought to have more treatment on it with the machines," Rinaldi said. "It's better than it was."
"I see that, baby. This is something I know more about than you." He stoodup and sat down on the bed. "The kneeitself is a good job." He was through with the knee. "Tell me all about everything."
"There's nothing to tell," I said. "I've led a quiet life."
"You actlike a married man," he said. "What's the matter with you?" "Nothing,"I said. "What's the matter with you?"
"This war is killing me," Rinaldi said, "I am very depressed by it." He folded his hands over his knee.
"Oh," I said.
"What's the matter? Can't I even have human impulses?" "No. I can see you've been having a finetime. Tell me."
"All summer and all fall I've operated. I work all the time. I do everybody's work. All the hard ones they leave to me. By God, baby, I am becoming a lovely surgeon."

"That sounds better."
"I never think. No,by God, I don't think; I operate." "That's right."
"But now, baby, it's allover. I don't operatenow and I feellike hell. This is a terrible war, baby. You believe me when I say it. Now you cheer me up. Did you bringthe phonograph records?"
"Yes."
They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in my rucksack. I was too tired to get them out.
"Don't you feel good yourself, baby?" 

"I feellike hell."
"This war is terrible," Rinaldi said. "Come on. We'llboth get drunk and be cheerful. Then we'll go get the ashes dragged. Then we'll feel fine."
"I've had the jaundice," I said, "and I can't get drunk."
"Oh, baby, how you've come back to me. You come back serious and with a liver. I tell you this war is a bad thing. Why did we make it anyway."
"We'll havea drink.I don't want to get drunk but we'll have a drink."
Rinaldi went across the room to the washstand and brought back two glasses and a bottle of cognac.
"It's Austrian cognac," he said. "Seven stars. It's all they captured on San Gabriele." "Were youup there?"
"No. I haven't been anywhere. I've beenhere all the time operating. Look, baby, this is your old tooth­brushing glass. I kept it all the time to remindme of you."
"To remind you to brush your teeth."

"No. I have my own too. I kept this to remindme of you tryingto brush away the Villa Rossa from your teethin the morning, swearing and eating aspirin and cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think of you trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush." He came over to the bed. "Kiss me once and tell me you're not serious."
"I never kiss you. You're an ape."
"I know, you are the finegood Anglo­Saxon boy. I know. You are the remorse boy, I know. I will wait till I see the Anglo­Saxon brushing away harlotry with a toothbrush."
"Put some cognac in the glass."
We touchedglasses and drank. Rinaldilaughed at me.
"I will get you drunk and take out yourliver and put youin a good Italian liver and make you a man again."
I held the glass for some more cognac. It was dark outside now. Holding theglass of cognac, I went over and opened the window. The rain had stopped falling. It was colder outside and there was a mist in the trees.
"Don't throw the cognac out the window," Rinaldi said. "If you can't drink it give it to me."
"Go something yourself," I said. I was glad to see Rinaldi again. He had spent two years teasing me and I had always liked it. We understood each other very well.
"Are you married?" he asked from the bed. I was standingagainst the wall by the window.
"Not yet."

"Are youin love?" "Yes."
"With that English girl?" "Yes."
"Poor baby. Is shegood to you?" "Of course."
"I mean is she good to you practically speaking?" "Shut up."
"I will. You will see I am a man of extreme delicacy. Does she­­?" "Rinin," I said. "Please shut up. If you want tobe my friend, shut up." "I don't want to be your friend, baby. I am your friend." 

"Then shut up." "All right."
I went over to the bed and sat down beside Rinaldi. He was holding his glass and looking at the floor.
"You see how it is, Rinin?"
"Oh, yes. All my life I encounter sacred subjects. But very few with you. I suppose you must have them too." He looked at the floor.
"You haven't any?" "Not any?"
"No."

"I can say this about your mother and that about your sister?" "And that about your sister," Rinaldi said swiftly. We both laughed. "The old superman," I said.
"I amjealous maybe," Rinaldi said. "No, you're not."
"I don't mean like that. I mean something else. Have you any married friends?" "Yes," I said.
"I haven't," Rinaldi said. "Not if they love eachother." "Why not?"
"They don't like me." "Why not?"
"I am the snake. I am the snake ofreason." "You're gettingit mixed. The apple was reason." "No, it was the snake."
He was more cheerful.
"You are better when you don't think so deeply," I said.
"I love you,baby," he said. "You puncture me when I become a great Italian thinker. But I knowmany things I can't say. I knowmore than you."
"Yes. You do."
"But you will have a better time. Even with remorse you willhave abetter time." "I don't think so."
"Oh, yes.That is true. Already I am only happy when I amworking." He looked at the flooragain.
"You'll get over that."
"No. I only like two other things; one is bad formy work and theotheris overin half an hour or fifteen minutes. Sometimes less."
"Sometimes a good dealless."
"Perhaps I have improved, baby. You do not know. But there are only the two things and my work."
"You'll get otherthings."
"No. We never getanything.We are born with all we have and we neverlearn.We never get anything new. We all start complete. You should be glad not to be a Latin."
"There's no such thing as a Latin. That is 'Latin' thinking. You are so proud of your defects." Rinaldi lookedup and laughed. 

"We'll stop,baby. I am tired from thinking somuch." He had looked tired when he came in. "It's nearly time to eat. I'm glad you're back. You are my best friend and my war brother."
"When do the war brothers eat?" I asked.
"Right away. We'll drink once more for yourliver's sake." "Like Saint Paul."
"You are inaccurate. That was wine and the stomach. Take a little wine for your stomach's sake."
"Whatever you have in thebottle," I said. "Forany sake you mention." "To your girl," Rinaldi said. He held out his glass.
"All right."
"I'll never say adirty thing about her." "Don't strain yourself."
He drank off the cognac. "I am pure," he said. "I am like you, baby. I will get an English girl too. As a matter of fact I knew your girl first but she was a little tall for me. A tall girl fora sister," he quoted.
"You have a lovely pure mind," I said.

"Haven't I? That's why they call me Rinaldo Purissimo." "Rinaldo Sporchissimo."
"Come on, baby, we'll godown to eat while my mindis still pure."
I washed, combed my hair and we went down the stairs. Rinaldi was a little drunk. In the roomwhere we ate, the meal was not quite ready.
"I'll go get the bottle," Rinaldi said. He went off up the stairs. I sat at the table and he came back with the bottle and poured us each a half tumbler of cognac.
"Too much," I said and held up the glass andsighted at thelamp on the table. "Not foran empty stomach. It is a wonderful thing. It burns out the stomach
completely. Nothingis worse for you." "All right."

"Self­destruction day by day," Rinaldi said. "It ruins the stomach and makes the hand shake. Just the thingfor a surgeon."
"You recommend it?"

"Heartily. I use no other. Drink it down, baby, and look forward to being sick."
I drank half theglass. In the hall I could hear the orderly calling. "Soup! Soupis ready!"
The major came in, nodded to us and satdown. He seemed very small attable. "Is this all we are?" he asked. The orderly putthe soup bowl down and heladled
out a plate full.

"We are all," Rinaldi said. "Unless the priest comes. If he knew Federico was here he would behere."
"Where is he?" I asked.

"He's at 307," the major said. He was busy with his soup. He wiped his mouth, wipinghis upturned gray mustache carefully. "He will come I think. I called them and left word to tellhim you were here."
"I miss the noise ofthe mess," I said. "Yes, it's quiet," the major said.
"I will be noisy," said Rinaldi. 

"Drink some wine, Enrico," said the major. He filled my glass. The spaghetti came in and we were all busy.We were finishing the spaghetti when the priest came in. He was the same as ever, small and brown and compact looking. I stood up and we shook hands. He put his hand on my shoulder.
"I came as soon as I heard," he said. "Sit down," the major said. "You're late."
"Good­evening, priest," Rinaldi said, using the English word. They had taken that up from the priest­baiting captain, who spokea little English. "Good­evening, Rinaldo," the priest said.Theorderly brought him soup but he said he would start with the spaghetti.
"How are you?" he asked me.

"Fine,"I said. "How have things been?"
"Drink some wine, priest," Rinaldi said. "Takea little wine for your stomach's sake. That's Saint Paul, you know."
"Yes I know," said the priest politely. Rinaldi filledhis glass.
"That Saint Paul," said Rinaldi. "He's the onewhomakes all the trouble." The priest looked at me and smiled. I could see that thebaiting did not touch him now.
"That Saint Paul," Rinaldi said. "He was a rounder and a chaser and then when he was no longer hothe said it was no good. When he was finished he made the rules for us who are still hot. Isn't it true, Federico?"

The major smiled.We were eating meat stewnow.
"I never discuss a Saint afterdark," I said. The priest looked upfrom the stew and smiled at me.
"There heis, gone over with the priest," Rinaldi said. "Where are all the good old priest­baiters? Where is Cavalcanti? Where is Brundi? Where is Cesare? Do Ihave to bait this priest alone without support?"
"He is a good priest," said the major.

"He is a good priest," said Rinaldi. "But still a priest. I try to make the mess like the old days. I want to make Federico happy. To hell with you, priest!"
I saw the major look at him and notice that he was drunk. His thin face was white. Theline of his hair was very black against the white of his forehead.
"It's all right, Rinaldo," said the priest. "It's allright."

"To hell with you," said Rinaldi. "To hell with the whole damn business." He sat back in his chair.
"He's been under a strain and he's tired," the major said to me. He finished his meat and wiped up the gravy with a piece of bread.
"I don't give a damn," Rinaldi said to the table. "To hell with the whole business." He looked defiantly around the table, his eyes flat, his face pale.
"All right," I said. "To hell with the whole damn business."

"No, no," said Rinaldi. "You can't do it. You can't do it. I say you can't do it. You're dry and you're empty and there's nothing else. There's nothing else I tell you. Not a damned thing. I know, when I stop working."
The priest shook his head. The orderly took away the stew dish.
"What are you eating meat for?" Rinalditurned to thepriest."Don't you know it's Friday?"
"It's Thursday," the priest said. 

"It's a lie. It's Friday. You're eating thebody of our Lord. It's God­meat. I know. It's dead Austrian. That's what you're eating."
"The white meat is from officers," I said, completing the old joke. Rinaldilaughed. He filled his glass.
"Don't mind me," he said. "I'mjust a little crazy." "You ought to have aleave," thepriest said. The major shook his head at him. Rinaldilooked atthe priest.
"You think I ought to have a leave?"

The major shook his head at the priest. Rinaldi was looking at the priest. "Just as you like," the priest said. "Not if you don't want."
"To hell with you," Rinaldi said. "They try toget rid of me. Every night they try to get rid of me. I fight them off. What if I have it. Everybody has it. The whole world's got it. First," he went on, assuming the manner of a lecturer, "it's a little pimple. Then we notice a rash between the shoulders. Then we notice nothing at all.We put our faith in mercury."

"Or salvarsan," the major interrupted quietly.
"A mercurial product," Rinaldi said. He acted very elated now. "I know something worth two of that. Good old priest," he said. "You'll never get it. Baby willget it. It's an industrial accident. It's a simple industrial accident."
The orderly broughtin the sweet and coffee. The dessert was a sort of black bread pudding withhard sauce. Thelamp was smoking; the black smoke going close upinside the chimney.
"Bring two candles andtake away thelamp," the major said. The orderly brought two lighted candles each in a saucer, and took out the lamp blowing it out. Rinaldi was quiet now. He seemed all right. We talked and after the coffee we all went out into the hall.

"You want to talk to the priest. I have to go in the town," Rinaldi said. "Good­night, priest."
"Good­night, Rinaldo," the priest said. "I'll see you, Fredi," Rinaldi said.
"Yes," I said."Come in early." He made a face and went out the door. The major was standing with us. "He's very tiredand overworked," he said. "He thinks too he has syphilis. I don't believeit but he may have. He is treatinghimself forit. Good­night. You willleave before daylight, Enrico?"
"Yes."
"Good­by then," he said. "Goodluck. Peduzziwill wake you and go with you." "Good­by, Signor Maggiore."
"Good­by. They talk about an Austrian offensive but I don't believeit. I hopenot. But anyway it won't be here. Gino will tell youeverything. The telephone works well now."
"I'll call regularly."
"Please do. Good­night. Don't let Rinaldi drink so much brandy." "I'll try not to."
"Good­night, priest." "Good­night, Signor Maggiore." He went off into his office. 

26

I went to the door and lookedout. It had stopped raining but there was a mist. "Should we go upstairs?" I asked the priest.
"I can only stay a little while." "Come on up."
We climbed the stairs and went into my room. I lay down on Rinaldi's bed. The priest sat on my cot that the orderly had set up. It was dark in the room.
"Well," he said, "how are you really?" "I'm allright. I'm tired to­night."
"I'm tired too, butfrom no cause." "What about the war?"
"I think it will be over soon. I don't know why, but I feelit." "How do you feelit?"
"You know how yourmajor is? Gentle? Many people are like that now." "I feel that way myself," I said.
"It has been a terrible summer," said the priest. He was surer of himself now than when I had gone away. "You cannot believe how it has been. Except that youhave been there and you know how it can be. Many people have realized the war this summer. Officers whom I thought could never realize it realize it now."
"What willhappen?" Istroked the blanket with my hand.
"I do not know but I donot think it can go onmuch longer." "What willhappen?"
"They will stop fighting." "Who?"
"Both sides."
"I hope so," I said. "You don't believeit?"
"I don't believeboth sides will stop fighting atonce."
"I suppose not. It is too much to expect. But when I see the changes in men I do not think it can go on."
"Who won the fightingthis summer?" "No one."
"The Austrians won," I said. "They kept them from taking San Gabriele. They've won. They won't stop fighting."
"If they feel as we feel they may stop. They have gone through the same thing." "No one ever stopped when they were winning."
"You discourage me."
"I can only say what I think."
"Then you think it will go on and on? Nothingwill ever happen?"
"I don't know. I only think the Austrians willnot stop when they have won a victory. It is in defeat that we become Christian."
"The Austrians are Christians­­except for the Bosnians." 

"I don't mean technically Christian. I mean like Our Lord." He said nothing.
"We are allgentler now because we are beaten. Howwould Our Lord have beenif Peter hadrescued him in the Garden?"
"He would have been just the same." "I don't think so," I said.
"You discourage me," he said. "Ibelieve and I pray that something will happen. I have felt it very close."
"Something may happen," I said. "But it will happen only to us. Ifthey felt the way we do, it would be all right. But they havebeaten us. They feelanother way."
"Many of the soldiers have always felt this way. It is not because they were beaten." "They were beaten to start with. They were beaten when they took them from their farms and put them in the army. That is why the peasant has wisdom, because he is defeated from the start. Put him in power and see how wise he is."
He did not say anything. He was thinking.

"Now I am depressed myself," I said. "That's why I never think about these things. I never think and yet when I begin to talk I say the things I have found outin my mind without thinking."
"I had hoped for something." "Defeat?"
"No. Something more."
"There isn't anything more. Except victory. Itmay be worse." "I hoped fora long time for victory."
"Me too."
"Now I don't know."
"It has to be one or the other."
"I don't believein victory any more."
"I don't. But I don't believein defeat. Though itmay be better." "What do you believein?"
"In sleep," I said. He stoodup.
"I am very sorry to have stayed solong. But I like so to talk with you."
"It is very nice to talk again. I said that about sleeping, meaningnothing." We stood up and shook hands in the dark.
"I sleep at307 now," he said.
"I go out on post early to­morrow." "I'll see you when you come hack."
"We'll havea walk andtalk together." I walked with him to the door.
"Don't go down," he said. "It is very nice that you are back. Though not sonice for you." He put his hand on my shoulder.
"It's all right for me," I said. "Good­night." "Good­night. Ciaou!"
"Ciaou!" I said. I was deadly sleepy. 

27

I woke when Rinaldi came in but he did not talk and I went back to sleep again. In the morning I was dressed and gonebefore it was light. Rinaldi did not wake when I left.

I had not seen the Bainsizza before and it was strangeto goup the slope where the Austrians had been, beyond the place on the river where I had been wounded. There was a steep new road and many trucks. Beyond, the road flattened out and I saw woods and steep hills in the mist. There were woods that had been takenquickly and not smashed. Then beyond where the road was not protected by the hills it was screened by mattingon the sides and over the top. The road ended in a wrecked village. The lines were up beyond.There was much artillery around. The houses were badly smashed but things were very wellorganized and there were signboards everywhere. We found Gino andhe got us some coffee and later I went with him and met various people and saw the posts. 

Gino said the British cars were working further down the Bainsizza at Ravne. He had great admiration forthe British. There was still a certain amount of shelling, he said, but not many wounded. There would be many sick now the rains had started. The Austrians were supposed to attack but he did not believeit. We were supposed to attack too, but they had not brought up any new troops so he thought that was off too. Food was scarce and he would be glad to get a full mealin Gorizia. What kind of supperhad Ihad? I told him and he said that would be wonderful. He was especially impressed by the dolce. I did not describeit in detail, only said it was a dolce, and I think he believed it was something more elaborate thanbread pudding.

Did I know where he was going to go? I said Ididn't but that some of the other cars were at Caporetto. He hoped he would go up that way. It was a nice little place and he liked the high mountain hauling upbeyond. He was a nice boy andevery one seemed to like him. He said where it really had been hellwas at San Gabriele and the attack beyond Lom that had gone bad. He said the Austrians had a great amount of artillery in the woods along Ternova ridge beyond and above us, and shelled the roads badly at night. 

There was a battery of naval guns that had gotten on his nerves. I would recognize them because of their flat trajectory. You heard thereport and then the shriek commenced almost instantly. They usually fired two guns at once, one right after the other, and the fragments from the burst were enormous. He showedme one, a smoothly jagged piece of metal over a footlong.It looked like babbittingmetal.

"I don't suppose they are so effective," Gino said. "But they scare me. They all sound as though they came directly for you. There is the boom, theninstantly the shriek and burst. What's the use of not being wounded if they scare you to death?"

He said there were Croats in the lines opposite us now and some Magyars. Our troops were stillin the attacking positions. There was no wire to speak ofand no place to fall back to if there should be an Austrian attack. There were fine positions for defense along the low mountains that came up out of the plateau but nothinghad been done about organizingthem for defense. What did I think about the Bainsizza anyway?
I had expectedit to be flatter, more like a plateau. I had not realizedit was so broken up.
"Alto piano," Gino said,"but no piano." 

We went back to the cellar of the house where he lived. I said I thought a ridge that flattenedout on top and hada little depth would be easier and more practical to hold than a succession of small mountains. It was no harder to attack up a mountain thanon the level, I argued. "That depends on the mountains," he said. "Look at San Gabriele."

"Yes," I said,"but where they hadtrouble was at the top where it was flat.They got up to the top easy enough."
"Not so easy," he said.
"Yes," I said,"but that was a special casebecause it was a fortress rather than a mountain, anyway. The Austrians had been fortifying it for years." I meant tactically speakingin a war where there was some movement a succession of mountains were nothing to hold as a line because it was too easy to turn them. You should have possible mobility anda mountain is not very mobile. Also, people always over­shoot downhill. If the flank were turned, the best men would be lefton the highest mountains. I did not believe in a war in mountains. I had thought about it alot, I said. You pinched off one mountain and they pinched off another but when somethingreally started every onehad to get down off the mountains.

What were you goingto doif you had a mountain frontier? he asked.
I had not worked that out yet, I said, and we bothlaughed. "But," I said, "in the old days the Austrians were always whippedin the quadrilateral around Verona. They let them come down onto the plain and whipped them there."
"Yes," said Gino. "But those were Frenchmen and you can work out military problems clearly when you are fightingin somebody else's country."
"Yes," I agreed,"when it is your own country you cannot useit so scientifically." "The Russians did, to trap Napoleon."
"Yes, but they had plenty of country. If you tried to retreat to trap Napoleonin Italy you would find yourself in Brindisi."
"A terrible place," said Gino. "Have youeverbeen there?" "Not to stay."
"I am a patriot," Gino said. "But I cannot loveBrindisi or Taranto." "Do you love the Bainsizza?" I asked.
"The soilis sacred," he said. "But I wish it grewmore potatoes. You know when we came here we found fields of potatoes the Austrians had planted."
"Has the food really been short?"

"I myself have never had enough toeat but I am a big eaterand I have not starved. The mess is average.Theregiments in the line get pretty good food but those in support don't get so much. Somethingis wrong somewhere. There should be plenty of food."
"The dogfish are sellingit somewhere else."

"Yes, they give the battalions in the front lineas much as they can but the ones in back are very short. They have eaten all the Austrians' potatoes and chestnuts from the woods. They ought to feed them better. We are big eaters. I am sure there is plenty of food. It is very bad forthe soldiers to be short of food. Have you ever noticed the difference it makes in the way you think?"
"Yes," I said."It can't win a war but it can loseone."
"We won't talk about losing. There is enough talk about losing. What has been done this summer cannot have beendonein vain." 

I did not say anything. I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and sacrifice and the expressionin vain. We had heard them, sometimes standingin the rain almost out of earshot, sothat only the shouted words came through, and had read them, on proclamations that were slapped upby billposters over otherproclamations, now for a long time, and I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious hadno glory andthe sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it. 

There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and these with the names of the places were all you could say and have themmean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, orhallow were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates. Gino was a patriot, so he said things that separated us sometimes, but he was also a fine boy and I understood his being a patriot. He was born one. He left with Peduzziin the car to go back to Gorizia.

It stormed all that day.The wind drove down the rain and everywhere there was standing water and mud. The plaster of the broken houses was gray and wet. Late in the afternoon the rain stopped and from out number two post I saw the bare wet autumn country with clouds over the tops ofthe hills and the straw screening over the roads wet and dripping. The sun came out once before it went down and shone on the bare woods beyond the ridge. There were many Austrian guns in the woods on that ridge but only a few fired. I watched the sudden roundpuffs of shrapnel smoke in the sky above abroken farmhouse near where the line was; soft puffs with a yellow white flash in the centre. You saw the flash, then heard the crack, then saw the smoke ball distort andthin in the wind. 

There were many iron shrapnel balls in therubble of the houses and on theroad beside the broken house where thepost was, but they did not shellnearthe post that afternoon. Weloaded two cars and drove down the road that was screened with wet mats and the last of the sun came throughin the breaks between the strips of mattings. Before we were out on the clearroad behind the hill the sun was down. We went on down the clear road and as it turned a cornerinto theopen and went into the square arched tunnel of matting the rain started again.

The windrosein the night andat three o'clock in the morning with therain coming in sheets there was a bombardment and the Croatians came over across the mountain meadows and throughpatches of woods andinto the front line. They fought in the dark in the rain and a counter­attack of scared men from the second linedrove them back. There was much shelling and many rockets in the rain and machine­gun and rifle fire all along theline. They did not come again andit was quieter and between thegusts of wind and rain we could hear the sound of a great bombardment far to the north.

The wounded were cominginto the post, some were carriedon stretchers, some walkingand some were brought on thebacks of men that came across the field. They were wet to the skin and all were scared. We filled two cars with stretcher cases as they came up from the cellar of the post and as I shut the door of the second car and fastened it I felt therain on my face turn to snow. The flakes were coming heavy and fast in the rain.

When daylight came the stormwas still blowing but the snow had stopped. It had melted as it fell on the wet ground and now it was raining again. There was anotherattack just after daylight butit was unsuccessful. We expected an attack all day but it did not 

come until the sun was goingdown. The bombardment started to the south below the long wooded ridge where the Austrian guns were concentrated. We expected a bombardment but it did not come. It was getting dark. Guns were firing from the field behind the village and the shells, going away, had a comfortable sound.

We heard that the attack to the south had been unsuccessful. They did not attack that night but we heard that they had broken throughto thenorth. In the night word came that we were to prepare to retreat. The captain at the post told me this. He hadit from the Brigade. A little while later he came from the telephoneand said it was a lie. The Brigade had received orders that the line of the Bainsizza should be held no matter what happened. I asked about thebreak through and he said that he hadheard at the Brigade that the Austrians had broken through the twenty­seventh army corps up toward Caporetto. There had been a great battle in the north all day.
"If thosebastards let them through we are cooked," he said.

"It's Germans that are attacking," one of the medicalofficers said. The word Germans was something to be frightened of. We did not want to have anything to do with the Germans.
"There are fifteen divisions of Germans," the medical officer said. "They have broken through and we willbe cutoff."
"At the Brigade, they say this lineis to be held. They say they have not broken through badly and that we willhold aline across the mountains from Monte Maggiore."
"Where do they hear this?" "From the Division."

"The word that we were to retreat came from the Division."
"We work under the Army Corps," I said. "But here I work under you. Naturally when you tell me to go I will go. But get the orders straight."
"The orders are that we stay here. You clear the wounded from here to the clearing station."
"Sometimes we clear from the clearing station to the field hospitals too," I said. "Tell me, I have never seena retreat­­if there is a retreat how are all the woundedevacuated?"

"They are not. They take as many as they can and leave the rest." "What will I take in the cars?"
"Hospital equipment." "All right," I said.

The next night the retreat started. We heard that Germans and Austrians had broken throughin the north and were comingdown the mountain valleys toward Cividale and Udine. Theretreat was orderly, wet and sullen. In the night, going slowly along the crowded roads we passed troops marching under the rain, guns, horses pulling wagons, mules,motor trucks, all moving away from the front. There was no more disorder than in an advance.

That night we helped empty the field hospitals that had been set upin the least ruined villages of the plateau, takingthe wounded down to Plava on the river­bed: and the next day hauled all day in the rain to evacuate the hospitals and clearing station at Plava. It rained steadily and thearmy of the Bainsizza moved down off the plateau in the October rain and across the river where thegreat victories had commenced in the spring of that year. We came into Gorizia in the middle of the next day. The rain had stopped and the town was nearly empty. As we came up the street they were loading the girls from the soldiers' whorehouse into a truck. There were seven girls and they had on their hats and coats and carried small suitcases. Two of themwere crying. Of the others one smiled at us and put out her tongue and flutteredit up and down. She had thick full lips and black eyes.

I stoppedthe car and went over and spoke tothe matron. The girls from the officers'househad left early that morning, she said. Where were they going? To Conegliano, she said.The truck started. Thegirl with thick lips put out her tongueagain at us. The matron waved. The two girls kept on crying. The others looked interestedly out at the town. I got back in the car.
"We ought to go with them," Bonello said. "That would be a good trip." "We'll havea good trip," I said.
"We'll havea hell of a trip."
"That's what I mean," I said. We came up thedrive to the villa.
"I'd like to be there when some of those tough babies climb in and try and hop them."
"You think they will?"
"Sure. Everybody in the Second Army knows that matron." We were outside the villa.
"They callher the Mother Superior," Bonello said. "The girls are new but everybody knows her. They must have brought them up just before theretreat."
"They'llhave a time."
"I'll say they'll have a time. I'd like to have a crack at them for nothing. They charge too much at that house anyway. The government gyps us."
"Take the car out and have the mechanics go overit," I said. "Change the oil and check the differential. Fillit up and then get some sleep."
"Yes, Signor Tenente."

The villa was empty. Rinaldi was gone with the hospital. The majorwas gone taking hospital personnelin the staff car. There was a note on the window for me to fill the cars with the material piled in thehall and to proceed to Pordenone. The mechanics were gone already. I went out back to the garage. The other two cars came in while I was there and their drivers got down. It was starting torain again.
"I'm so­­sleepy I went to sleep three times coming here from Plava," Piani said. "What are we going to do, Tenente?"
"We'll change the oil, grease them, fill them up, then take them aroundin front and load up the junk they've left."
"Then do we start?"
"No, we'll sleep for three hours."
"Christ I'm gladto sleep," Bonello said. "I couldn't keep awake driving." "How's your car, Aymo?" I asked.
"It's all right."
"Get me a monkey suit and I'll help you with the oil."
"Don't you do that, Tenente," Aymo said. "Ifsnothing todo. You go and pack your things."
"My things are allpacked," I said. "I'll go and carry out the stuff that they left forus. Bringthe cars around as soon as they're ready." 

They brought the cars around to the front of the villa and we loaded themwith the hospital equipment which was piledin the hallway. Whenit was allin, the three cars stood in linedown the driveway under the trees in the rain. We went inside.
"Make a fire in the kitchen anddry your things," I said.
"I don't care about dry clothes," Piani said. "Iwant to sleep."
"I'm going to sleep on the major's bed," Bonello said. "I'm going to sleep where the old man corks off."
"I don't care where I sleep," Piani said.
"There are two beds in here." I opened thedoor.
"I never knew what was in that room," Bonello said. "That was old fish­face's room," Piani said.
"You two sleep in there," I said. "I'll wake you."
"The Austrians will wake us if you sleep too long, Tenente," Bonello said. "I won't oversleep," I said. "Where's Aymo?"
"He went out in the kitchen." "Get to sleep," I said.
"I'll sleep," Piani said. "I've been asleep sitting up all day. The whole top of my head kept coming down over my eyes."
"Take your boots off," Bonello said. "That's old fish­face's bed."
"Fish­face is nothing to me." Pianilay on the bed, his muddy boots straight out, his head on his arm. I went out to the kitchen. Aymo had a fire in the stove anda kettle of water on.
"I thought I'd start some pasta asciutta,"he said. "We'll behungry when we wake up."
"Aren't you sleepy, Bartolomeo?"

"Not so sleepy.When the water boils I'llleaveit. The fire will go down." "You'd betterget some sleep," I said. "We can eat cheese and monkey meat."
"This is better," he said. "Something hot will be good for those two anarchists. You go to sleep, Tenente."
"There's a bedin the major's room." "You sleep there."
"No, I'm goingup to my old room. Do you want a drink, Bartolomeo?" "When we go, Tenente. Now it wouldn't do me any good."
"If you wake in three hours and I haven't called you, wake me, will you?" "I haven't any watch,Tenente."
"There's a clock on the wallin the major's room." "All right."
I went out then through thedining­room and the hall andup the marble stairs to the roomwhere I hadlived with Rinaldi. It was raining outside. I went to the window and looked out. It was getting dark and I saw the three cars standing in lineunder the trees. The trees were dripping in the rain. It was cold and thedrops hung to thebranches. I went back to Rinaldi's bedand lay down and let sleep take me.
We ate in the kitchen before we started. Aymo had a basin of spaghetti with onions and tinned meat chopped up in it. We sat around the table and drank two bottles of the wine that had been left in the cellarof the villa. It was dark outside and still raining. Piani sat at the table very sleepy. 

"I like a retreat better than an advance," Bonello said. "On a retreat we drink barbera."
"We drink it now. To­morrowmaybe we drink rainwater," Aymo said.
"To­morrow we'll be in Udine. We'll drink champagne. That's where the slackers live. Wake up, Piani!We'll drink champagne tomorrow in Udine!"
"I'm awake," Piani said. He filled his plate with the spaghetti and meat. "Couldn't you find tomato sauce, Barto?"
"There wasn't any," Aymo said.
"We'll drink champagne in Udine," Bonello said. He filled his glass with the clear red barbera.
"We may drink­­before Udine," Piani said.
"Have you eaten enough, Tenente?" Aymo asked. "I've got plenty. Give me the bottle, Bartolomeo."
"I have a bottle apiece to take in the cars," Aymo said. "Did you sleep at all?"
"I don't need much sleep. I slept alittle."
"To­morrow we'll sleep in the king's bed," Bonello said. He was feeling very good. "To­morrowmaybe we'll sleepin­­," Piani said.
"I'll sleep with the queen," Bonello said. He looked to see how I took the joke. "You'll sleep with­­," Piani said sleepily.
"That's treason,Tenente," Bonello said. "Isn't that treason?"
"Shut up," I said. "You get too funny with a little wine." Outside it was raining hard. I looked at my watch. It was half­past nine.
"It's time to roll," I said and stood up.
"Who are you going to ride with,Tenehte?" Bonello asked.
"With Aymo. Then you come. Then Piani. We'll start out on the road for Cormons." "I'm afraid I'll go to sleep," Piani said.
"All right. I'llride with you. Then Bonello. Then Aymo." "That's the best way," Piani said. "Because I'm so sleepy." "I'll drive and you sleep awhile."
"No. I can drive just solong as I know somebody will wake me up if I go to sleep." "I'll wake you up. Put out the lights, Barto."
"You might as well leave them," Bonello said. "We've got no more use for this place."
"I have a smalllocker trunk in my room," I said. "Will you help takeit down, Piani?" "We'll take it," Piani said. "Come on, Aldo." He went off into the hall with Bonello. I heard them going upstairs.
"This was a fine place," Bartolomeo Aymo said. He put two bottles of wine and half a cheese into his haversack. "There won't bea place like this again.Where will they retreat to,Tenente?"
"Beyond the Tagliamento, they say. The hospitaland the sector are to beat Pordenone."
"This is a better town than Pordenone."
"I don't know Pordenone," I said. "I've just been through there." "It's not much of a place," Aymo said. 

28

As we moved out through the town it was empty in the rain and the dark except for columns of troops and guns that were going throughthe main street. There were many trucks too and some carts going through on other streets and converging on the main road. When we were out past thetanneries onto the main road the troops, the motor trucks, the horse­drawn carts and the guns were in one wide slow­moving column.We moved slowly but steadily in the rain, theradiator cap of our car almost against the tailboard of a truck that was loaded high, theload covered with wet canvas. Then the truck stopped.The whole column was stopped. It started again and we went a little farther, then stopped. I got out and walked ahead, going between the trucks and carts andunder the wet necks of the horses. The block was farther ahead. I left the road, crossed the ditch on a footboard and walkedalong the field beyond the ditch.

I could see the stalled column between the trees in the rain as I went forward across from it in the field. I went about a mile. The column did not move, although, on the other side beyond the stalled vehicles I could see the troops moving. I went back to the cars. This block might extend as far as Udine. Piani was asleep overthe wheel. I climbed up beside him and went to sleep too. Several hours later I heard the truck ahead of us grinding into gear. I woke Piani and we started, movinga few yards, then stopping, then going on again. It was still raining.

The column stalled again in the night and did not start. I got down and went back to see Aymo and Bonello. Bonello had two sergeants of engineers on the seat of his car with him. They stiffened when I came up.
"They were left to do something to a bridge,"Bonello said. "They can't find their unit so I gave them a ride."
"With the Sir Lieutenant's permission." "With permission," I said.
"Thelieutenant is an American," Bonello said. "He'll give anybody a ride."
One of the sergeants smiled. The other asked Bonello if I was an Italian from North or South America.
"He's not an Italian. He's North American English."
The sergeants were polite but did not believeit. I left them and went back to Aymo. He had two girls on the seat with him and was sitting back in the cornerand smoking.
"Barto, Barto," I said. Helaughed.
"Talk to them, Tenente,"he said. "I can't understand them. Hey!" He put his hand on the girl's thigh and squeezed it in a friendly way. The girl drew her shawl tight around her and pushed his hand away. "Hey!" he said. "Tell the Tenente your name and what you're doinghere."
The girllooked at me fiercely. The other girl kept hereyes down. The girl who looked at me said something in a dialect I could not understand a word of. She was plump and dark andlooked about sixteen.
"Sorella?" I asked and pointed at the other girl. 

She nodded herhead and smiled.
"All right," I said andpatted her knee. I felt her stiffen away when I touched her. The sister neverlooked up. She looked perhaps a year younger. Aymo put his handon the elder girl's thigh and she pushedit away. He laughed at her.

"Good man," he pointed athimself. "Good man," he pointed at me. "Don't you worry." The girllookedat him fiercely. The pair of them were like two wild birds.
"What does she ride with me for if she doesn't like me?" Aymo asked. "They got right upin the car the minute I motioned to them." He turned to thegirl. "Don't worry,"he said. "No dangerof ­­," using the vulgar word. "No place for ­­." I could see she understood the word and that was all. Her eyes looked athim very scared. She pulled the shawl tight. "Car all full," Aymo said. "No danger of ­­­­. No place for­­." Every time he said the word the girl stiffened a little. Then sitting stiffly and looking at him she began to cry. I saw herlips working and then tears came down her plump cheeks. Her sister, not looking up, took her hand and they satthere together. The older one, who had been so fierce, began to sob.

"I guess I scaredher," Aymo said. "I didn't mean to scare her."
Bartolomeo brought out his knapsack and cut off two pieces of cheese. "Here," he said. "Stop crying."
The older girl shook her head and still cried, but the youngergirl took the cheese and commenced to eat. After a while the younger girl gave her sister the second piece of cheese and they both ate. The older sister still sobbed a little.

"She'll be allright after a while," Aymo said.
An idea came to him. "Virgin?" he asked thegirl next to him. She noddedher head vigorously. "Virgin too?" he pointed to the sister. Both the girls noddedtheir heads and the elder said somethingin dialect.

"That's all right," Bartolomeo said. "That's all right." Both the girls seemed cheered.
I left them sitting together with Aymo sitting back in the cornerand went back to Piani's car. The column of vehicles did not move but the troops kept passing alongside. It was still raining hard and I thought some of the stops in the movement of the column might be from cars with wet wiring. More likely they were from horses or men going to sleep. Still, traffic could tie up in cities when every one was awake. It was the combination of horse and motor vehicles. They did not help each other any. The peasants' carts did not help much either. Those were a couple of fine girls with Barto. A retreat was no place for two virgins. Real virgins. Probably very religious. If there were no war we would probably all be in bed. In bed I lay me down my head. Bed and board. 

Stiff as a board in bed. Catherine was in bednow between two sheets, over her and under her. Which sidedid she sleep on? Maybe she wasn't asleep. Maybe she was lying thinkingabout me. Blow, blow, ye western wind. Well, it blew and it wasn't the small rain but the big rain down that rained. It rained all night. You knew it rained down that rained. Look at it. Christ, that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again. That my love Catherine. That my sweet love Catherinedown might rain. Blow her again to me. Well, we were in it. Every one was caught in it and the small rain would not quiet it. "Good­night, Catherine," I said out loud. "I hope you sleep well. If it's too uncomfortable, darling, lie on theother side," I said. "I'll get you some cold water. In alittle while it will bemorning and then it won't be so bad. I'm sorry he makes you so uncomfortable. Try and go to sleep, sweet." 

I was asleep all the time, she said. You've been talkingin your sleep. Are you all right?
Are you really there?
Of course I'm here. I wouldn't go away. This doesn't make any difference between us.
You're so lovely and sweet. You wouldn't go away in the night, would you?
Of course I wouldn't go away. I'm always here. I come whenever you want me. "­­," Piani said. "They've started again."
"I was dopey," I said. Ilooked at my watch. Itwas three o'clock in the morning. I reached back behind the seat for a bottle of the barbera.
"You talked outloud," Piani said.
"I was havinga dream in English," I said.

The rain was slackingand we were moving along. Before daylight we were stalled again and when it was light we were at a little rise in theground and I saw the road of the retreat stretched out farahead, everything stationary except for the infantry filtering through. We started to move again but seeing the rate of progress in the daylight, I knew we were going to have to get offthat main road some way and go across country if we ever hoped toreach Udine.

In the night many peasants had joined the column from the roads of the country and in the column there were carts loaded with household goods; there were mirrors projectingup between mattresses, and chickens and ducks tied to carts. There was a sewing machine on the cart ahead of us in the rain. They had saved the most valuable things. On some carts the women sat huddled from the rain and others walked beside the carts keeping as closeto them as they could.There were dogs now in the column, keeping under the wagons as they moved along. The road was muddy, the ditches at the side were high with water and beyond the trees that lined the road the fields looked too wet and too soggy to try to cross. I got down from the car and worked up the road a way, looking fora place where I could see ahead to find a side­road we could take across country. 

I knew there were many side­roads but did not want one that would lead to nothing. I could not remember them because we had always passed them bowling along in the caron the main road and they alllooked much alike. Now I knewwe must find one if we hoped to get through. No one knew where the Austrians were nor how things were going but I was certain that if the rain should stop and planes come over and get to work on that column that it would be all over. All that was needed was for a few men to leave their trucks or a few horses be killed to tie upcompletely the movement on the road.

The rain was not falling so heavily now and I thought it might clear. I went ahead along the edge of theroad and when there was a small road that led off to the north between two fields with a hedge of trees onboth sides, I thought that we had better take it and hurried back to the cars. I told Piani to turn off and went back to tell Bonello and Aymo.
"If it leads nowhere we can turn around and cut back in,"I said.

"What about these?" Bonello asked. His two sergeants were beside him on the seat. They were unshaven but still military lookingin the early morning.
"They'llbe good to push," I said. I went back to Aymo and told himwe were going to try it across country.
"What about my virgin family?" Aymo asked. The two girls were asleep. 

"They won't be very useful,"I said. "You ought to have some one that could push." "They could goback in the car," Aymo said. "There's room in the car."
"All right if you want them," I said. "Pick up somebody with a wide back to push." "Bersaglieri," Aymo smiled. "They have the widest backs. They measure them. How
do you feel, Tenente?" "Fine. How are you?"
"Fine. But very hungry."
"There ought to be something up that road and we will stop and eat." "How's yourleg, Tenente?"

"Fine,"I said. Standing on the step andlooking up ahead I could see Piani's car pulling out onto the little side­road and starting up it, his car showingthrough the hedge of bare branches. Bonello turned off and followed him and then Piani worked his way out and we followed the two ambulances ahead along the narrow road between hedges. It led toa farmhouse. We found Piani and Bonello stopped in the farmyard. The house was low and long with a trellis with a grape­vine over the door. There was a wellin the yard and Piani was getting up water to fill his radiator. So much goingin low gearhad boiledit out. The farmhouse was deserted. I looked back down the road, thefarmhouse was on a slight elevation above the plain, and we could see over the country, and saw the road, the hedges, the fields and the line of trees along the main road where the retreat was passing. The two sergeants were looking through the house. The girls were awake and looking at the courtyard,the well and the two big ambulances in front of the farmhouse, with three drivers at the well. One of the sergeants came out with a clock in his hand.

"Put it back," I said. He looked at me, went in the houseand came back without the clock.
"Where's yourpartner?" I asked.
"He's gone to thelatrine." He got up on the seat of theambulance. He was afraid we would leave him.
"What about breakfast, Tenente?" Bonello asked. "We could eat something. It wouldn't take very long."
"Do you think this road going down on the other side willlead to anything?" "Sure."
"All right. Let's eat." Piani and Bonello went inthe house.

"Come on," Aymo said to the girls. He held his hand tohelp them down. The older sister shook her head.They were not goinginto any desertedhouse. They looked after us.
"They are difficult," Aymo said. We went into the farmhouse together. It was large and dark, an abandoned feeling. Bonello andPiani were in the kitchen.
"There's not much to eat," Piani said. "They've cleaned it out." Bonello sliced a big cheese on the heavy kitchen table.
"Where was the cheese?"

"In the cellar. Piani found wine too and apples." "That's a good breakfast."
Piani was taking the wooden cork out of a big wicker­covered wine jug. He tippedit and poured a copper panfull.
"It smells all right,"he said. "Find some beakers, Barto." The two sergeants came in. 

"Have some cheese, sergeants," Bonello said.
"We should go," one of the sergeants said, eating his cheese anddrinkinga cup of wine.
"We'll go. Don't worry," Bonello said. "An army travels onits stomach," I said. "What?" asked the sergeant.
"It's better to eat."
"Yes. But time is precious."
"I believe the bastards have eaten already," Piani said. The sergeants looked at him. They hated the lot of us.
"You know the road?" one of them asked me. "No," I said. They lookedat each other.
"We would dobest to start," the first one said.
"We are starting," I said. I drank another cup of the red wine. Ittasted very good after the cheese and apple.
"Bring the cheese," I said and went out. Bonello came out carrying the great jug of wine.
"That's too big," I said. Helooked atit regretfully.
"I guess it is," he said. "Give me the canteens to fill." He filled the canteens and some of the wine ran out on the stone pavingof the courtyard. Then he picked up the wine jug and put it just inside the door.

"The Austrians can findit without breaking the door down," he said.
"We'll roll."I said. "Pianiand I will goahead."The two engineers were already on the seat beside Bonello. Thegirls were eating cheese and apples. Aymo was smoking. We started off down the narrow road. I looked back at the two cars coming and the farmhouse. It was a fine, low, solid stone house and the ironwork of the well was very good. Ahead of us the road was narrow and muddy and there was a high hedge on either side. Behind, the cars were following closely.

29

At noon we were stuck in a muddy road about, as nearly as we could figure, ten kilometres from Udine. The rain had stopped during the forenoon and three times we had heard planes coming, seen them pass overhead, watched them go far to the left and heard them bombing on the main highroad. We had worked through a network of secondary roads and had taken many roads that were blind, but had always, by backing up and finding another road, gotten closer toUdine. Now, Aymo's car, in backing so that we might get out of a blind road, hadgotten into the soft earth at the side and the wheels, spinning, had dug deeper and deeper untilthe car rested onits differential. The thing to do nowwas to dig out in front of the wheels, put in brush so that the chains could grip, and then push until the car was on the road. We were all down on the road around the car. 

The two sergeants looked at the carand examined the wheels. Then they started off down the road without a word. I went after them.
"Come on," I said. "Cut some brush." "We have togo,"one said.
"Get busy," I said,"and cut brush."
"We have togo,"one said. The other said nothing. They were in a hurry to start. They would not look at me.
"I order you to come back to the car and cut brush," I said. The one sergeant turned."We have to go on. In a little while you will be cut off. You can't order us. You're not ourofficer."
"I order you to cut brush," I said. They turned and started down theroad.

"Halt," I said. They kept on down the muddy road, thehedge on either side. "I order you to halt," I called. They went a little faster. I openedup my holster, took the pistol, aimed at the one who had talkedthe most, and fired. I missed and they both started to run. I shot three times and dropped one. The other went through the hedge and was out of sight. I fired at him through the hedge as he ran across the field. The pistol clicked empty and I put in another clip. I saw it was too far to shoot at the second sergeant. He was far across the field, running, his head held low. I commenced to reload the empty clip. Bonello came up.

"Let me go finish him," he said. I handed him the pistol and he walked down to where the sergeant of engineers lay face down across the road. Bonello leaned over, put the pistol against the man's head and pulled the trigger. The pistoldid not fire.

"You have to cock it," I said. He cockedit and fired twice. He took hold of the sergeant's legs and pulled him to the side of the road so helay beside the hedge. He came back and handed me the pistol.

"The son of abitch,"he said. He looked toward the sergeant. "You see me shoot him, Tenente?"
"We've got to get the brushquickly," I said. "Did Ihit the other one at all?" "I don't think so," Aymo said. "He was too faraway to hit with a pistol."
"The dirty scum," Piani said. We were all cutting twigs andbranches. Everything had been takenout of the car. Bonello was digging out in front of the wheels. When we were ready Aymo started the car and put it into gear. The wheels spun round throwing brush and mud. Bonello and I pushed until we could feel our joints crack. The car would not move.
"Rock herback and forth, Barto," I said.

He drove the enginein reverse, thenforward. The wheels only dug in deeper. Then the car was resting on the differential again, and the wheels spun freely in the holes they had dug. I straightened up.
"We'll try her with a rope," I said.
"I don't think it's any use, Tenente. You can't get a straight pull." "We have totry it," I said. "She won't come out any other way."
Piani's and Bonello's cars could only move straight ahead down the narrow road. We ropedboth cars together and pulled. Thewheels only pulled sideways against the ruts.
"It's no good," I shouted. "Stopit." 

Piani and Bonello got down from their cars and came back. Aymo got down. The girls were up the road about forty yards sitting on a stone wall.
"What do you say,Tenente?" Bonello asked.
"We'll dig out and try once more with the brush," I said. I lookeddown the road. It was my fault. I hadled them up here. The sun was almost out from behind the clouds and the body of the sergeant lay beside the hedge.
"We'll put his coat and cape under," I said. Bonello went toget them. I cut brush and Aymo and Piani dugout in front and between the wheels. I cut the cape, then rippedit in two, andlaid it under the wheelin the mud, then piled brush for the wheels to catch.We were ready to start and Aymo got up on the seat and started the car. The wheels spun and we pushed and pushed. But it wasn't anyuse.

"It's ­­ed," I said."Is there anything you want in the car, Barto?"
Aymo climbed up with Bonello, carrying the cheese andtwo bottles of wine and his cape. Bonello, sitting behind the wheel, was looking through the pockets of the sergeant's coat.
"Better throw the coat away," I said. "What about Barto's virgins?" "They can get in the back," Piani said. "I don't think we are going far." I opened the back door of the ambulance.
"Come on," I said. "Get in." The two girls climbed in and satin the corner. They seemed to have taken no notice of the shooting. I lookedback upthe road. The sergeant lay in his dirty long­sleeved underwear. I got up with Pianiand we started. We were going to try to cross the field.When theroad entered the field I got down and walked ahead. If we could get across,there was a road on theother side. We could not get across. It was too soft and muddy for the cars. When they were finally and completely stalled, the wheels dug in to the hubs, we left them in the field and started on foot for Udine.

When we came to the road which ledback toward the main highway I pointed down it to the two girls.
"Go down there," I said. "You'll meet people."They looked at me. I took out my pocket­book andgave them each a ten­lira note. "Go down there," I said, pointing. "Friends! Family!"
They did not understand but they held the money tightly and started down theroad. They looked back as though they were afraid Imight take the money back. I watched them go down the road, their shawls closearound them, lookingback apprehensively at us. The three drivers were laughing.

"Howmuchwill yougive me to go in that direction, Tenente?" Bonello asked. "They're better off in a bunchof people than aloneif they catch them," I said. "Give me two hundredlire and I'll walk straight back toward Austria," Bonello said. "They'd take it away from you," Piani said.
"Maybe the war will be over," Aymo said. We were going up the road as fast as we could. The sun was trying to come through. Beside the road were mulberry trees. Through the trees I could see our two big moving­vans of cars stuck in the field. Pianilooked back too.
"They'llhave to build a road to get them out," he said. "I wish to Christ we had bicycles," Bonello said.
"Do they ride bicycles in America?" Aymo asked. "They used to." 

"Here it is agreat thing," Aymo said. "A bicycle is a splendid thing." "I wish to Christ we had bicycles," Bonello said. "I'm no walker."
"Is that firing?" I asked. I thought I could hear firing along way away. "I don't know," Aymo said. He listened.
"I think so," I said.
"The first thing we will see will be the cavalry," Piani said. "I don't think they've got any cavalry."
"I hope to Christ not," Bonello said. "I don't want to be stuck on a lance by any­­ cavalry."
"You certainly shot that sergeant,Tenente," Piani said.We were walking fast. "I killed him," Bonello said. "I never killed anybody in this war, andall my life I've
wanted to kill a sergeant."
"You killed him on the sit allright," Piani said. "He wasn't flying very fast when you killed him."
"Never mind. That's one thing I can always remember. I killed that­­of a sergeant." "What will you say in confession?" Aymo asked.
"I'll say, 'Bless me, father, I killed a sergeant." They alllaughed. "He's an anarchist," Piani said. "He doesn't go to church." "Piani's an anarchist too," Bonello said.
"Are you really anarchists?"I asked.
"No, Tenente. We're socialists. We come from Imola." "Haven't you ever been there?"
"No."
"By Christ it's afine place, Tenente. You come there after the war and we'll show you something."
"Are you all socialists?" "Everybody."
"Is it a finetown?"
"Wonderful. You never saw a town like that." "How did you get to be socialists?"
"We're all socialists. Everybody is a socialist.We've always been socialists." "You come, Tenente. We'll make you a socialist too."
Ahead the road turned off to the left and there was a little hill and, beyond a stone wall, an apple orchard. As theroad went uphill they ceased talking. We walked along together all going fast against time.

30

Later we were on a road that led to a river. There was a longline of abandoned trucks and carts on the road leadingup to thebridge. No one was in sight. Theriver was high and the bridge had been blown up in thecentre; the stone arch was falleninto the river and the brown water was going overit. We went on up the bank looking fora place to 

cross. Up ahead I knew there was a railway bridge and I thought we might be able to get across there.The path was wet and muddy. We did not see any troops; only abandoned trucks and stores. Along the riverbank there was nothingand no one but the wet brush and muddy ground. We went up to thebank and finally we saw the railway bridge.
"What a beautiful bridge," Aymo said. It was a long plain iron bridge across what was usually a dry river­bed.

"We'd better hurry and get across before they blow it up," I said. "There's nobody to blow it up," Piani said. "They're allgone." "It's probably mined," Bonello said. "You cross first, Tenente." "Listen to the anarchist," Aymo said. "Make him go first."
"I'll go," I said."It won't be mined to blow up with one man."
"You see," Piani said. "That is brains. Why haven't you brains, anarchist?" "If I had brains I wouldn't be here," Bonello said.
"That's pretty good, Tenente," Aymo said.

"That's pretty good," I said. We were close to the bridge now. The sky had clouded over again andit was raining alittle. Thebridge looked long and solid. We climbed up the embankment.
"Come one at a time," I said and started across the bridge. I watched the ties and the rails for any trip­wires or signs of explosive but I saw nothing. Down below the gaps in the ties the riverran muddy and fast. Ahead across the wet countryside I could see Udine in the rain. Across the bridge Ilooked back. Just up the river was another bridge. As I watched, a yellowmud­colored motor car crossed it. The sides of the bridge were high and thebody ofthe car, once on, was out of sight. But I saw the heads of the driver, the man on the seat with him, and the two men on the rear seat. They all wore German helmets. Then the car was over the bridge and out of sight behind thetrees and the abandoned vehicles on the road. I waved to Aymo whowas crossing and to the others to come on. I climbed down and crouched beside the railway embankment. Aymo came down with me.

"Did you see the car?" I asked. "No. We were watching you."
"A German staff car crossed onthe upper bridge." "A staff car?"
"Yes." "Holy Mary."
The others came and we all crouched in the mud behind the embankment, looking across the rails at the bridge, theline of trees, the ditch and the road.
"Do you think we're cut off then, Tenente?"
"I don't know. All I know is a German staff carwent along that road."
"You don't feel funny, Tenente? You haven't got strange feelings in the head?" "Don't be funny, Bonello."
"What about a drink?" Piani asked. "If we're cut off we might as wellhave adrink." He unhooked his canteen and uncorkedit.
"Look! Look!" Aymo said and pointed toward the road. Along the top of the stone bridge we could seeGerman helmets moving. They were bent forward and moved smoothly, almost supernatu rally, along. As they came off the bridge we saw them. They were bicycle troops. I saw the faces ofthe first two. They were ruddy and healthy­looking. 

Their helmets came iow down over their foreheads andthe sideof their faces. Their carbines were clipped to the frame of the bicycles. Stick bombs hung handle down from their belts. Their helmets and theirgray uniforms were wet and they rode easily, looking ahead and to both sides. There were two­­then fourin line, then two, then almost a dozen; then anotherdozen­­ then one alone.They did not talk but we could not have heard them because of the noise from the river. They were gone out of sight up the road.
"Holy Mary," Aymo said.
"They were Germans," Piani said. "Those weren't Austrians."
"Why isn't there somebody here to stop them?" I said. "Why haven't they blown the bridge up?Why aren't there machine­guns along this embankment?"
"You tell us, Tenente," Bonello said. I was very angry.
"The whole bloody thingis crazy. Down below they blow up a little bridge. Here they leave a bridge on the main road. Where is everybody? Don't they try and stop them at all?"
"You tell us, Tenente," Bonello said. I shut up. It was none of my business; allI had to do was to get to Pordenone with threeambulances. I had failedat that. All I had to do nowwas get to Pordenone. I probably could not even get to Udine. The hell I couldn't. The thing to do was to be calm and not get shot or captured.
"Didn't you have a canteen open?" I asked Piani. He handedit to me. I took a long drink. "We might as well start," I said. "There's no hurry though. Do you want to eat something?"
"This is no place to stay," Bonello said. "All right. We'll start."

"Should we keep on this side­­out of sight?"
"We'd be better off on top. They may come along this bridge too. We don't want them on top of us before we see them."
We walked along the railroad track. On both sides of us stretched the wet plain. Ahead across the plain was the hillof Udine. The roofs fell away from the castle on the hill. We could see the campanile and the clock­tower. There were many mulberry trees in the fields. Ahead I saw a place where the rails were torn up. Theties hadbeendug out too and thrown down the embankment.
"Down! down!" Aymo said. We dropped down beside theembankment. There was another group of bicyclists passing along the road. I looked over the edge and saw them go on.
"They saw us but they went on," Aymo said. "We'll get killedup there, Tenente," Bonello said.

"They don't want us," I said. "They're after something else. We're in more dangerif they should come on us suddenly."
"I'd rather walk here out of sight," Bonello said. "All right. We'll walk along the tracks."
"Do you think we can get through?" Aymo asked.
"Sure. There aren't very many of them yet. We'll go through in thedark." "What was that staff car doing?"
"Christ knows," I said.We kept on up the tracks. Bonello tiredof walkingin the mud of the embankment and came up with the rest of us. The railway moved south away from 

the highway now and we could not see what passed along the road. A short bridge over a canal was blown up but we climbed across on what was left of the span. We heard firing ahead of us.
We came up on the railway beyond the canal. It went on straight toward the town across the low fields.We could see theline of the other railway ahead of us.To the north was themain road where we had seen the cyclists; to the south there was a small branch­ road across the fields with thick trees on each side. I thought we had better cut to the south and work around the town that way andacross country toward Campoformio and the main road to the Tagliamento.We could avoid the main line ofthe retreat by keeping to the secondary roads beyond Udine. I knew there were plenty of side­roads across the plain. I started down the embankment.

"Come on," I said. We would make for the side­road and work to the south of the town. We all started down the embankment. A shot was fired at us from the side­road. The bullet went into the mud of the embankment.

"Go on back," I shouted. I started up the embankment, slippingin the mud. The drivers were ahead of me. I went up the embankment as fast as I could go. Two more shots came from the thick brush and Aymo, as he was crossing thetracks, lurched, tripped and fell face down. We pulled him down on theother side and turned him over. "His head ought to be uphill," I said. Piani moved him around. Helay in the mud on the sideof the embankment, his feet pointing downhill, breathing blood irregularly. Thethree of us squatted over him in therain. He was hit low in the back of the neck and thebullet had ranged upward and come out under the right eye. He died while I was stopping up the two holes. Pianilaid his headdown, wiped at his face, with a piece ofthe emergency dressing, then letit alone.

"The­­,"he said.
"They weren't Germans," I said. "There can't be any Germans over there." "Italians," Piani said, using the word as an epithet, "Italiani!" Bonello said nothing.
He was sitting beside Aymo, not lookingat him. Piani picked up Aymo's cap where it had rolled down the embankment and put it overhis face. He took out his canteen.
"Do you want a drink?" Piani handed Bonello the canteen.
"No," Bonello said. He turned to me. "That might havehappened tous any time on the railway tracks."
"No," I said. "It was because we started across the field."

Bonello shook his head. "Aymo's dead," he said. "Who's dead next, Tenente? Where do we go now?"
"Those were Italians that shot," I said. "Theyweren't Germans."
"I suppose if they were Germans they'd havekilled all of us," Bonello said.
"We are in more danger from Italians than Germans," I said."The rear guard are afraid ofeverything.The Germans knowwhat they're after."
"You reason it out, Tenente," Bonello said. "Where do we go now?" Piani asked.
"We betterlie up some place tillit's dark. If we could get south we'd be all right." "They'd have to shoot us all to prove they were right the first time," Bonello said.
"I'm not going to try them."
"We'll find aplace tolie up as nearto Udineas we can get and then gothrough when it's dark." 

"Let's go then," Bonello said. We went down the north side ofthe embankment. I looked back. Aymo lay in the mud with the angle of theembankment. He was quite small and his arms were by his side, his puttee­wrappedlegs and muddy boots together, his cap over his face. He looked very dead. It was raining. I had liked him as well as any one I ever knew. I had his papers in my pocket and would write to his family. Ahead across the fields was a farmhouse. There were trees around it and the farm buildings were built against the house. There was a balcony along the second floorheld up by columns.

"We better keepa little way apart," I said. "I'llgo ahead." I startedtoward the farmhouse. There was a path across the field.
Crossing the field, I did not know but that some one would fire on us from the trees near the farmhouse or from the farmhouse itself. I walked toward it, seeingit very clearly. The balcony of the second floor merged into the barn and there was hay coming Out between the columns. The courtyard was of stone blocks and all the trees were dripping with the rain. There was a big empty twowheeled cart, the shafts tipped high up in therain. I came to the courtyard, crossed it, and stood under the shelter of the balcony. The door of the house was open and I went in. Bonello and Piani came in after me. It was dark inside. I went back to the kitchen. There were ashes of a fire on the big open hearth.The pots hung over the ashes, but they were empty. I looked aroundbut I could not find anything to eat.

"We ought to lie upin the barn," I said. "Do you think you could findanything to eat, Piani, and bring it up there?"
"I'lllook," Piani said. "I'lllook too," Bonello said.

"All right," I said. "I'llgo upand look at the barn." I found a stone stairway that went up from the stable underneath. The stable smelt dry and pleasant in the rain. The cattle were all gone, probably driven off when they left. The barn was half full of hay. There were two windows in the roof, one was blocked with boards, the other was a narrow dormer window on the north side. There was a chute so that hay might be pitched down to the cattle. Beams crossed the opening down into the main floor where the hay­carts drovein when the hay was hauledin to be pitched up.I heard the rain on the roof and smelledthe hay and, when I went down, the clean smell of dried dungin the stable.We could pry a board loose and see out of the south window down into the courtyard. 

The other window looked out on the field toward the north. We could get out of either window onto the roof and down, or go down the hay chuteif the stairs were impractical. It was a big barn and we could hidein the hay if we heard any one.It seemed like a good place. I was sure we could have gotten through tothe south if theyhad not fired on us. It was impossible that there were Germans there. They were coming from the north and down the road from Cividale.They could not have come through from the south. The Italians were even more dangerous. They were frightenedand firing on anything they saw. Last night on the retreat we had heard that there had been many Germans in Italian uniforms mixing with the retreat in the north. I did not believe it. That was one ofthose things youalways heard in the war. It was one of the things the enemy always did to you. You did not know any one whowent overin German uniform to confuse them. Maybe they did but it sounded difficult. I did not believe the Germans did it.

I did not believe they had to. There was no need to confuse our retreat. Thesize of the army and the fewness of the roads did that. Nobody gave any orders, let alone 

Germans. Still, they would shoot us for Germans. They shot Aymo. The hay smelled good and lying in a barn in thehay took away all the years in between. We had lain in hay and talked and shot sparrows with an air­rifle when they perched in the triangle cut highupin the wall of the barn. The barn was gone now and one year they had cut the hemlock woods and there were only stumps, dried tree­tops, branches and fireweed where the woods had been. You could not go back. If you did not go forward what happened? You never got back to Milan. And if you got back to Milan what happened? I listened to the firing to the north toward Udine. I could hearmachine­gun firing. There was no shelling. That was something. They must have gotten some troops along the road. I looked down in the half­light of the hay­barn and saw Piani standing on the hauling floor. He had a long sausage, a jar of something and two bottles of wine under his arm.
"Come up," I said. "There is theladder." Then I realized that I should help himwith the things and went down. I was vague in the head from lyingin the hay. I had been nearly asleep.
"Where's Bonello?" I asked.

"I'll tell you," Piani said. We went up theladder. Up on the hay we set the things down. Piani took out his knife with the corkscrew and drew the cork ona wine bottle.
"They have sealing­wax on it," he said. "It must be good." He smiled. "Where's Bonello?" I asked.
Pianilooked at me.
"He went away, Tenente," he said. "He wanted to be a prisoner." I did not say anything.
"He was afraid we would get killed."
I held the bottle of wine and did not say anything.
"You see we don't believein the war anyway, Tenente." "Why didn't you go?" I asked.
"I did not want to leave you." "Where did he go?"
"I don't know, Tenente. He went away."
"All right," I said. "Will you cut the sausage?" Pianilooked at me in the half­light.
"I cutit while we were talking," he said. We sat in the hay and ate the sausage and drank the wine. It must have been wine they had saved for a wedding. It was so old that it was losing its color.

"You look out of this window, Luigi," I said. "I'll go look out the other window." We had each been drinkingout of one of the bottles and I took my bottle with me
and went over and lay flat on the hay and looked out the narrow window at the wet country. I do not know what I expected to seebut I did not seeanythingexcept the fields and thebare mulberry trees and therain falling. I drank the wine and it did not make me feel good. They had kept it too long andit had gone topieces and lost its quality and color. I watched it get dark outside; thedarkness came very quickly. It would be a black night with the rain. Whenit was dark there was no use watching any more, so I went over to Piani. He was lying asleep and Idid not wakehim but sat down beside him for a while. He was a big man and he slept heavily. After a while I woke him and we started.
That was a very strange night. I do not know what I had expected, death perhaps and shooting in the dark and running, but nothinghappened. We waited, lying flat beyond 

the ditch along the main road while a German battalion passed, then when they were gone we crossed the road and went on to thenorth.We were very close to Germans twice in the rain but they did not seeus. We got past the town to thenorth without seeing any Italians, then after a while came on the main channels ofthe retreat and walked all night toward the Tagliamento. I had not realizedhow gigantic the retreat was. The whole country was moving, as well as the army. We walked all night, makingbetter time than the vehicles. My legachedand I was tiredbut we made good time. It seemed so silly for Bonello to have decided to be taken prisoner. There was no danger. We had walked through two armies without incident. If Aymo had not been killed there would never have seemed to be any danger. No one had bothered us when we were in plain sight along the railway. The killing came suddenly and unreasonably. I wondered where Bonello was.
"How do you feel, Tenente?" Piani asked. We were going along the sideof a road crowded with vehicles and troops.

"Fine."
"I'm tired of this walking."
"Well, all we have to dois walk now. We don't have to worry." "Bonello was a fool."
"He was a foolall right."
"What will you do about him, Tenente?" "I don't know."
"Can't you just put him down as taken prisoner?" "I don't know."
"You seeif the war went on they would make bad trouble for his family." "The war won't go on," a soldier said. "We're going home. The war is over." "Everybody's goinghome."
"We're allgoing home."
"Come on, Tenente," Piani said. He wanted to get past them. "Tenente?Who's aTenente? A basso gli ufficiali! Down with theofficers!"
Piani took me by the arm. "I better call you by your name," he said. "They might try and make trouble. They've shot some officers." We workedup past them.
"I won't make a report that will make trouble for his family." I went on with our conversation.
"If the waris overit makes no difference," Piani said. "But I don't believeit's over. It's too good that it should be over."
"We'll know pretty soon," I said.
"I don't believeit's over. They all think it's over but I don't believe it." "Viva la Pace!" a soldier shouted out. "We're going home!"
"It would be fineif we all went home," Piani said. "Wouldn't you like to go home?" "Yes."
"We'll never go. I don't think it's over." "Andiamo a casa!" a soldier shouted.
"They throw away theirrifles," Piani said. "They take them off and drop them down while they're marching. Then they shout."
"They ought to keep theirrifles."
"They think if they throw away their rifles they can't make them fight." 

In the dark and the rain, making our way along the sideof the road I could see that many of the troops still had their rifles. They stuck up above the capes.
"What brigade are you?" anofficer called out.
"Brigata di Pace," some one shouted. "Peace Brigade!" The officer said nothing. "What does he say? What does the officer say?"
"Down with the officer. Viva la Pace!"
"Come on," Piani said.We passed two British ambulances, abandoned in theblock of vehicles.
"They're from Gorizia," Piani said. "I know the cars." "They got furtherthan we did."
"They started earlier."
"I wonder where the drivers are?" "Up ahead probably."
"The Germans have stopped outside Udine,"I said. "These people will all get across the river."
"Yes," Piani said. "That's why I think the warwill go on."
"The Germans could come on," I said. "I wonder why they don't come on." "I don't know. I don't know anything about thiskindof war."
"They have to wait for their transport I suppose."
"I don't know," Piani said. Alone he was much gentler. When he was with theothers heWas a very rough talker.
"Are you married, Luigi?" "You know I ammarried."
"Is that why you did not want to bea prisoner?" "That is one reason. Are you married, Tenente?" "No."
"Neitheris Bonello."
"You can't tell anything by a man's being married. But I should think a married man would want to get back to his wife," I said. I would be glad to talk about wives.
"Yes."
"How are your feet?" "They're sore enough."

Before daylight we reached the bank of the Tagliamento and followed down along the flooded river to the bridge where all the traffic was crossing.
"They ought to be able to hold at this river," Piani said. In the dark the flood looked high. The water swirled and it was wide. Thewooden bridge was nearly three­quarters of a mile across, and the river, that usually ranin narrow channels in the wide stony bed far below the bridge, was close under the wooden planking. We went along thebank and then worked our way into the crowd that were crossing the bridge. Crossing slowly in the rain a few feet above the flood, pressed tight in the crowd, thebox of an artillery caisson just ahead, I looked overthe sideand watched the river. Now that we could not go our own pace I felt very tired. There was no exhilarationin crossing the bridge. I wondered what it would be like if a plane bombed it in the daytime.
"Piani," I said.
"Here I am, Tenente." He was alittle ahead in the jam. No one was talking. They were all trying to get across as soon as they could: thinking only of that. We were almost 

across. At thefar end of the bridge there were officers and carabinieri standingon both sides flashinglights. I saw them silhouetted against the sky­line. As we came close to them I saw one of the officers point to a man in the column. A carabiniere went in afterhim and came out holding the man by the arm. He took him away from the road. We came almost opposite them. The officers were scrutinizingevery one in the column, sometimes speaking toeach other, going forward to flash a light in some one's face. They took some one else out just before we came opposite. I saw the man. He was a lieutenantcolonel. I saw the stars in the box on his sleeve as they flashed a light on him. His hair was gray and he was short and fat. The carabiniere pulled him in behind theline of officers. As we came opposite I saw one or two of them look at me. Then one pointed at me and spoke to a carabiniere. I saw the carabiniere start for me, come through the edgeof the column toward me, then felt him take me by the collar.

"What's the matter with you?" I said and hit him in the face. I saw his face under the hat, upturned mustaches and blood coming down his cheek. Anotherone dovein toward us.
"What's the matter with you?" I said. He did not answer. He was watching a chance to grab me. I put my arm behind me to loosenmy pistol.
"Don't you know you can't touch an officer?"
The other one grabbed me from behind and pulled my arm up so that it twistedin the socket. I turned with him and the other one grabbed me around the neck. I kicked his shins and got my left kneeinto his groin.

"Shoot him if he resists," I heard some one say.
"What's the meaning of this?" Itried to shout but my voice was not very loud. They had me at the side of the road now.
"Shoot him if he resists," anofficer said. "Take him over back." "Who are you?"
"You'll find out." "Who are you?"
"Battle police," another officer said.
"Why don't you ask me to step overinstead of having one of these airplanes grab me?"
They did not answer. They did not have to answer. They were battle police. "Take him back there with the others," thefirst officer said. "You see. He speaks
Italian with an accent."
"So do you, you ," I said.
"Take him back with the others," the first officer said. They took me down behind theline of officers below the road toward a group of people in a field by the river bank. As we walked toward them shots were fired. I saw flashes of the rifles and heard the reports. We came up to the group. There were four officers standing together, with a man in front of themwith a carabiniere on each side of him. A group of menwere standingguarded by carabinieri. Four other carabinieri stood nearthe questioning officers, leaning on their carbines. They were wide­hatted carabinieri. The two who had me shovedme in with the group waiting to be questioned. I looked at theman the officers were questioning. He was the fat gray­hairedlittle lieutenant­colonel they had taken out of the column. The questioners hadallthe efficiency, coldness and command of themselves of Italians who are firing andare not being firedon. 

"Your brigade?" He told them. "Regiment?" He told them.
"Why are you not with yourregiment?" He told them.
"Do you not know that an officer should be with his troops?" He did. That was all. Another officer spoke.
"It is you and suchas you that have let thebarbarians onto the sacred soil of the fatherland."
"I beg your pardon," said thelieutenant­colonel.
"It is because of treachery suchas yours that we have lost the fruits of victory." "Have you ever beenin aretreat?" the lieutenant­colonel asked.
"Italy should never retreat."
We stood there in the rain andlistened to this.We were facing theofficers and the prisonerstoodin front and a little to one sideof us.
"If you are going to shoot me," the lieutenant­colonel said, "please shoot me at once without further questioning. The questioning is stupid." He made the sign of the cross. The officers spoketogether. One wrote something on a pad of paper.

"Abandoned his troops, ordered to be shot," he said.

Two carabinieri took the lieutenant­colonel to the riverbank. He walkedin the rain, an old man with his hat off, a carabinieri on either side. I did not watch them shoot him but I heard the shots. They were questioning some one else. This officer too was separated from his troops. He was not allowed to makean explanation. He cried when they read the sentence from the pad of paper, and they were questioning another when they shot him. They made a point of beingintent on questioningthe next manwhile the man who had been questionedbefore was being shot.In this way there was obviously nothingthey could do about it. 

I did not know whether I should wait to be questioned or make a break now. I was obviously a German in Italianuniform. I saw how their minds worked; if they had minds andif they worked. They were all young men and they were savingtheir country. The second army was beingre­formed beyondthe Tagliamento. They were executing officers of the rank of major and above who were separated from theirtroops. They were also dealing summarily with German agitators in Italian uniform. They wore steel helmets. Only two of us had steel helmets. Some of the carabinieri had them. The other carabinieri wore the widehat. Airplanes we called them. We stood in the rain and were taken out one at a time to be questioned and shot. So far they had shot every one they hadquestioned. The questioners had that beautifuldetachment and devotion to stern justice of men dealing in death without beingin any danger of it. They were questioning a full colonel of a line regiment. Three more officers had just been put in with us.

"Where was his regiment?"
I looked atthe carabinieri. They were lookingat the newcomers. The others were looking at the colonel. I ducked down, pushed between two men, and ran for the river, my head down. I tripped atthe edge and went in with a splash. The water was very cold and I stayed under as long as I could. I could feel the current swirl me and I stayedunder until I thought I could never come up. The minute I came up I took a breath and went down again. It was easy to stay under with so muchclothing and my boots.When I came up the 

second time I saw a piece of timber ahead of me and reached it and held on with one hand. I kept my head behindit and did not even look overit. I did not want to see the bank. There were shots when I ranand shots when I came up the first time. I heard them when I was almost above water. There were no shots now. Thepiece oftimber swung in the current and I held it with one hand. I looked at the bank. It seemed to be goingby very fast. There was muchwood in the stream. The water was very cold.We passed the brush of anisland above the water. I held onto the timberwith both hands andlet it take me along. The shore was out of sight now.

31

You do not know how long you are in a river when the current moves swiftly. It seems a long time and it may be very short. The water was cold and in flood and many things passed thathad been floated off the banks when the riverrose. I was lucky to have a heavy timber to hold on to, and I lay in the icy water with my chin on the wood, holding as easily as I could with both hands. I was afraid of cramps and I hoped we would move toward the shore.We went down the river in a long curve. It was beginningto belight enough so I could see the bushes along the shore­line. There was a brush island ahead and the current moved toward the shore. I wonderedif I should take off my boots and clothes and try to swim ashore, but decided not to. I had never thought of anything but that I would reach the shore some way, and I would be in abad position if I landed barefoot. I had to get to Mestre some way.

I watched the shore come close, then swing away, then come closer again. We were floating more slowly. The shore was very close now. I could see twigs on the willow bush. The timber swung slowly so that the bank was behind me and I knewwe were in an eddy. We went slowly around. As I saw the bank again, very close now, I tried holding with one arm and kicking and swimming the timber toward the bank with theother, but I did not bring it any closer. I was afraid we would move out of the eddy and, holding with one hand, I drew up my feet so they were against the side of the timber and shoved hard toward the bank.I could see the brush, but even with my momentum and swimming as hard as I could, the current was taking me away. 

I thought then I would drown because of my boots, but I thrashed andfought through the water, and when Ilooked up the bank was coming toward me, and I kept thrashing and swimming in a heavy­footed panic until I reached it. I hung to the willow branch and did not have strength to pull myself up but I knew I would not drown now. It had never occurredto me on the timber that I might drown. I felt hollow and sick in my stomach and chest from the effort, and I held to the branches and waited. When the sick feeling was gone I pulled into the willow bushes and rested again, my arms around some brush, holding tight with my hands to the branches. Then I crawled out, pushed on through the willows and onto the bank. It was halfdaylight and I saw no one. I lay flaton the bank and heard the riverand the rain.
After a while I got up and startedalong the bank. I knew there was no bridge across the river until Latisana. I thought I might be opposite San Vito. I began to think out what I 

should do. Ahead there was a ditch runninginto the river. I went toward it. So far I had seen no one and I sat down by some bushes along thebank of the ditch and took off my shoes and emptied them of water. I took off my coat, took my wallet with my papers and my money all wet in it out of theinsidepocket and then wrung the coat out.I took off my trousers and wrung them too, then my shirt and under clothing. I slapped andrubbed myself and then dressed again. I had lost my cap.

Before I put on my coat I cut the cloth stars offmy sleeves and put them in the insidepocket with my money. My money was wet but was allright. I counted it. There were three thousandand some lire. My clothes felt wet and clammy and I slapped my arms to keep the circulation going. I had woven underwear and I did not think I would catch cold if I kept moving. They had taken my pistol at the road and I put the holster under my coat. I hadno cape and it was cold in the rain. I started up thebank of the canal. It was daylight and the country was wet, low and dismal looking. The fields were bare and wet; a long way away I could see a campanile rising out of theplain. I came up ontoa road. Ahead I saw some troops coming down the road. I limped along the side of the road and they passed me and paid no attention tome. They were amachine­gun detachment going up toward the river. I went on down the road.

That day I crossed the Venetian plain. It is a low levelcountry and under the rain it is even flatter. Toward the seathere are salt marshes and very few roads. Theroads all go along the river mouths to the sea and to cross the country you must go along the paths beside the canals. I was workingacross the country from the north to the south and had crossed two railway lines and many roads and finally I came out at the end of a path onto a railway line where it ran beside a marsh. It was themain line from Venice to Trieste, with a high solid embankment, a solid roadbed and double track. Down the tracks a way was a flag­station and I could see soldiers on guard. Up theline there was a bridge over a stream that flowedinto the marsh. I could see a guard too at the bridge. Crossing the fields to the north I had seen a train pass onthis railroad, visible along way across theflat plain, and I thought a train might come from Portogruaro. I watched the guards and lay down on the embankment so that I could see both ways along the track. The guard at the bridge walked a way up the line toward where flay, then turned and went back toward the bridge. 

Ilay, and was hungry, and waited for the train. Theone Ihad seen was so long that the engine moved it very slowly and I was sure I could get aboard it. After I had almost givenup hoping for one I saw a train coming. The engine, coming straight on, grew larger slowly. I lookedat theguard at the bridge. He was walkingon the near side of the bridge but on the other sideof thetracks. That would put him out of sight when the train passed. I watched the engine come nearer. It was working hard. I could see there were many cars. I knew there would be guards on the train, and Itried to see where they were, but, keeping out of sight, I could not. 

The engine was almost to where I was lying. When it came opposite, working and puffing evenon the level, and I saw the engineer pass, I stood upand stepped up close to the passing cars. If the guards were watching I was a less suspicious object standing beside the track. Several closed freight­cars passed. Then I saw a low open carof the sort they call gondolas coming, covered with canvas. I stood untilit had almost passed, then jumped and caught the rear hand­rods and pulled up. I crawled down between the gondola and the shelter ofthe high freight­car behind. I did not think any one had seen me. I was holding to the hand­rods and crouching low, my feet on the coupling.We were almost opposite the bridge. I remembered the guard. As we passed 

him he looked at me. He was a boy and his helmet was too big for him. I stared athim contemptuously and helooked away. He thought I had something todo with the train.
We were past. I saw him stilllooking uncomfortable, watching the other cars pass and I stooped to see how the canvas was fastened. It had grummets and was laced down at the edge with cord. I took out my knife, cut the cord and put my arm under. There were hard bulges under the canvas that tightened in the rain. Ilooked up and ahead. There was a guard on the freight­car ahead but he was looking forward. I let go of the hand­rails and ducked under the canvas. My forehead hit something that gave me a violent bump and I felt blood on my face but I crawledonin andlay flat. Then I turned around and fastened down the canvas.

I was in under the canvas with guns. They smelled cleanly ofoiland grease. I lay and listened to the rain on the canvas and the clickingof the car over the rails. There was a little light came throughand Ilay and looked at the guns. They had their canvas jackets on. I thought they must have been sent ahead from the third army. The bump on my forehead was swollenand I stopped the bleedingby lying still andlettingit coagulate, then picked away the dried blood except over the cut. It was nothing. I had no handkerchief, but feeling with my fingers I washed away where the driedblood had been, with rainwater that dripped from the canvas, and wiped it clean with the sleeve of my coat. I did not want to look conspicuous. I knew I would have to get out before they got to Mestre because they would be taking care of these guns. They had no guns to lose or forget about. I was terrifically hungry.

32

Lying on the floor of the flat­car with the guns beside me under the canvas I was wet, cold and very hungry. Finally I rolled over and lay flat on my stomachwith my head on my arms. My knee was stiff, but it hadbeen very satisfactory. Valentini had donea fine job. I had donehalf theretreat on foot and swum part of the Tagliamento with his knee. It was his knee allright. The other knee was mine. Doctors did things to you and then it was not yourbody any more. The head was mine, and theinside of the belly. It was very hungry in there. I could feelit turn over on itself. The head was mine, but not to use, not to think with, only to remember and not too much remember.

I could remember Catherinebut I knew I would get crazy if I thought about her when I was not sure yet I would see her, soI would not think about her, only about her a little, only about her with the car going slowly and clickingly, and some light throughthe canvas and my lying with Catherine on the floor of the car. Hard as the floor ofthe car to lie not thinking only feeling, having been away toolong, the clothes wet and the floor moving only a little each time and lonesome insideand alone with wet clothing and hard floor for a wife.
You did notlove the floor ofa flat­car nor guns with canvas jackets and the smellof vaselined metal ora canvas that rain leaked through, althoughit is very fine undera canvas and pleasant with guns; but you loved some one else whom now you knewwas 

not even to be pretended there; you seeing now very clearly and coldly­­not so coldly as clearly andemptily. You saw emptily, lying on your stomach, having been present when one army moved back and another came forward. You hadlost your cars and your men as a floorwalkerloses the stock of his department in a fire. There was, however, no insurance. You were out of it now. You had nomore obligation. If they shot floorwalkers after a firein the department store because they spoke with an accent they had always had, then certainly the floorwalkers would not be expected to return when the store opened again for business. They might seek other employment; if there was any other employment and the police did not get them.

Anger was washed away in the river along with any obligation. Although that ceased when the carabiniere put his hands onmy collar. I would like to have had the uniform off although I did not care much about the outward forms. I had taken off the stars, but that was for convenience. It was no pointof honor. I was not against them. I was through. I wished them alltheluck. There were the good ones, and the brave ones, and the calm ones and the sensible ones, andthey deserved it. But it was not my show any more and I wished this bloody train would get to Mestre andI would eat and stop thinking. I would have to stop.

Piani would tell them they had shot me. They went through the pockets and took the papers of the people they shot. They would not have my papers. They might call me drowned. I wondered what they would hearin the States. Dead from wounds and other causes. Good Christ I was hungry. I wondered what had become of the priest at the mess. And Rinaldi. He was probably at Pordenone. If they had not gone further back. Well, I would never see him now. I would never seeany of them now. That life was over. I did not think he had syphilis. It was not a serious disease anyway if you took it in time, they said. But he would worry. I would worry too if I hadit. Any one would worry.

I was not made to think. I was made to eat. My God, yes. Eat and drink andsleep with Catherine. To­night maybe. No that was impossible. But to­morrow night, and a good meal and sheets and never going away again except together. Probably have to go damned quickly. She would go. I knew she would go. When would we go? That was something to think about. It was getting dark. I lay and thought where we would go. There were many places.


BOOK FOUR

33


I dropped off the train in Milan as it slowed tocome into the station early in the morning before it was light. I crossed the track and came out between some buildings and down onto the street. A wine shop was open and I went in for some coffee. It smelled of early morning, of swept dust, spoons in coffee­glasses and the wet circles leftby wine­ glasses. The proprietor was behind the bar. Two soldiers satat a table. I stood at the bar and drank a glass of coffee and ate apiece of bread. The coffee was gray with milk, and I skimmed the milk scum off the top with a piece of bread. The proprietorlooked at me.

"You want a glass of grappa?" "No thanks."
"On me," he said andpoured a small glass and pushedit toward me. "What's happening at the front?"
"I would not know."
"They are drunk," he said, moving his hand toward the two soldiers. I could believe him. They lookeddrunk.
"Tell me," he said, "what is happening at the front?" "I would not know about the front."
"I saw you come down the wall. You came off the train." "There is a big retreat."
"I read the papers.What happens? Is it over?" "I don't think so."
He filledthe glass with grappa from a short bottle. "If you are in trouble," he said, "I can keep you."
"I am not in trouble."
"If you are in trouble stay here with me." "Where does one stay?"
"In the building. Many stay here. Any who are in trouble stay here." "Are many in trouble?"
"It depends on the trouble. You are a South American?" "No."
"Speak Spanish?" "A little."

He wiped off the bar.
"It is hard now to leave the country but in no way impossible." "I have no wish toleave."
"You can stay here as long as you want. Youwill see what sort of man I am." "I have to go this morning but I willremember the address to return."
He shook his head. "You won't come back if you talk like that. I thought you were in real trouble."
"I am in no trouble. But I value the address ofa friend." I put a ten­lira note on thebar to pay for the coffee. "Have a grappa with me," I said.
"It is not necessary." "Have one."
He poured the two glasses.
"Remember," he said."Come here. Do not let other people take you in. Here you are all right."
"I am sure." "You are sure?" "Yes." 

He was serious. "Thenlet me tell you one thing. Do not go about with that coat." "Why?"
"On the sleeves it shows very plainly where the stars have been cut away. The cloth is a different color."
I did not say anything.
"If you have no papers I can give you papers." "What papers?"
"Leave­papers."

"I have no need forpapers. I have papers."
"All right," he said. "But if you need papers I can get what you wish." "Howmuch are such papers?"
"It depends on what they are. Theprice is reasonable." "I don't need any now."
He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm allright," I said.
When I went out he said, "Don't forget that I am your friend." "No."
"I will see you again," he said. "Good," I said.
Outside I kept away from the station, where there were military police, and picked up a cabat the edge of the little park. I gave the driver the address of the hospital. At the hospital I went to the porter's lodge. His wife embraced me. He shook my hand.
"You are back. You are safe." "Yes."
"Have you had breakfast?" "Yes."

"How are you, Tenente? How are you?" the wife asked. "Fine."
"Won't you have breakfast with us?"
"No, thank you. Tell me is Miss Barkley here at the hospital now?" "Miss Barkley?"
"The English lady nurse."

"His girl," the wife said. She patted my arm and smiled. "No," the porter said."Sheis away."
My heart went down. "You are sure? I mean the tall blonde English young lady." "I am sure. She is gone to Stresa."
"When did she go?"
"She went two days ago with the otherlady English."
"Good," I said. "I wish you to do something forme. Do not tell any one you have seen me. It is very important."
"I won't tell any one," the porter said. I gave him a ten­lira note. He pushedit away. "I promise you I will tellno one," he said. "Idon't want any money."
"What can we do for you, Signor Tenente?" his wife asked. "Only that," I said.
"We are dumb," the porter said. "You willlet me know anything I can do?" "Yes," I said."Good­by. I will see you again." 

They stood in the door, lookingafter me.
I got into the cab and gave the driver the address of Simmons, one of the men I knewwho was studying singing.
Simmons lived along way out in the town toward the Porta Magenta. He was stillin bed and sleepy when I went to see him.
"You get up awfully early, Henry," he said. "I came in on the early train."
"What's all this retreat?Were you at the front?Will you have a cigarette? They're in that box on the table." It was a big room with a bed beside the wall, a piano overon the far sideand a dresser and table. I sat ona chairby the bed. Simmons sat propped up by the pillows and smoked.
"I'm in a jam, Sim," I said.
"So am I," he said."I'm always in a jam. Won't you smoke?" "No," I said. "What's the procedure in going to Switzerland?" "For you? The Italians wouldn't let you out of the country." "Yes. I know that. But the Swiss. What will they do?"
"They intern you."
"I know. But what's the mechanics ofit?"
"Nothing. It's very simple. You can go anywhere. I think you just have to report or something. Why? Are you fleeing the police?"
"Nothing definite yet."
"Don't tell me if you don't want. But it would be interesting to hear. Nothing happens here. I was a great flop at Piacenza."
"I'm awfully sorry."
"Oh yes­­I went very badly. I sung well too. I'm going to try it again at the Lyrico here."
"I'd like to be there."
"You're awfully polite. You aren't in a bad mess, are you?" "I don't know."
"Don't tell me if you don't want. How do you happen to be away from the bloody front?"
"I think I'm through with it."
"Good boy. I always knew you had sense. Can I help you any way?" "You're awfully busy."
"Not a bit of it, my dear Henry. Not a bit of it. I'd be happy to do anything." "You're about my size.Would you go out andbuy me an outfit of civilian clothes?
I've clothes but they're all at Rome."
"You did live there, didn't you? It's a filthy place. How did you everlive there?" "I wanted to be an architect."
"That's no place for that. Don't buy clothes. I'llgive you all the clothes you want. I'll fit you out so you'llbe a great success. Goin that dressing room. There's a closet. Take anything you want. My dear fellow, you don't want to buy clothes."
"I'd rather buy them, Sim."
"My dear fellow, it's easier for me to let you have them than go out and buy them. Have you got a passport? You won't get far without a passport."
"Yes. I've still got my passport." 

"Then get dressed, my dear fellow, and off toold Helvetia." "It's not that simple. I have to go upto Stresa first."
"Ideal, my dear fellow. You just row a boat across. If I wasn't trying to sing, I'd go with you. I'll go yet."
"You could take up yodelling."
"My dear fellow, I'll take up yodelling yet. I really can sing though. That's the strangepart."
"I'll bet you can sing."
He lay back in bed smoking a cigarette.
"Don't bet too much. But I can sing though. It's damned funny, but I can. I like to sing. Listen." He roaredinto "Africana," his neck swelling, the veins standing out."I can sing," he said. "Whether they like it or not." I looked out of the window. "I'll go down andlet my cab go."
"Come back up,my dear fellow, and we'll have breakfast." He stepped out of bed, stood straight, took a deep breath and commenced doingbending exercises. I went downstairs and paid off the cab.

34

In civilian clothes I felt a masquerader. I had been in uniform a long time and I missed the feeling of beingheld by your clothes. The trousers felt very floppy. I had bought a ticket at Milan for Stresa. I hadalso bought a new hat. I could not wear Sim's hat but his clothes were fine. They smelled of tobacco and as I sat in the compartment and looked out the window the new hat felt very new and the clothes very old. I myself felt as sad as the wet Lombard country that was outsidethrough the window. There were some aviators in the compartment who did not think much ofme. They avoidedlooking at me and were very scornful of a civilian my age. I did not feel insulted.In the old days I would have insulted them and picked a fight. They got off at Gallarate and I was glad to be alone. I had the paper but I did not read it because I did not want to read about the war. I was going toforget the war. I had made a separate peace. I felt damned lonely and was glad when the train got to Stresa.

At the station I had expectedto see the porters from the hotels but there was no one. The season had been over a long time and no one met the train. I got down from the train with my bag, it was Sim's bag, and very light to carry, being empty except for two shirts, and stood under the roof of the stationin the rain while thetrain went on. I found a man in the stationand asked him if he knew what hotels were open. The Grand­Hotel & des Isles Borromées was open and several small hotels that stayed open all the year. I startedin the rain for the Isles Borromées carrying my bag. I saw a carriage coming down the street and signalled to the driver. It was better to arrive in a carriage.We drove up to the carriage entrance of the big hotel and the concierge came out with an umbrella and was very polite. 

I took a good room. It was very big and light and looked out onthelake. The clouds were down over the lake but it would be beautiful withthe sunlight. I was expecting my wife, I said.There was a big double bed, a _letto matrimoniale_ with a satin coverlet. The hotel was very luxurious. I went down thelong halls, down the wide stairs, through the rooms to the bar. I knew the barman and sat on a high stool and ate salted almonds and potato chips. The martini felt cool and clean.

"What are you doing here in _borghese?_" the barman asked after he had mixed a second martini.
"I am on leave. Convalescing­leave."
"There is no one here. I don't know why they keep thehotel open." "Have you been fishing?"
"I've caught some beautiful pieces. Trolling this time of year you catch some beautiful pieces."
"Did you ever get the tobacco I sent?" "Yes. Didn't you get my card?"

I laughed. I had not been able to get the tobacco. It was American pipe­tobacco that he wanted, but my relatives had stopped sendingit orit was being held up. Anyway it never came.
"I'll get some somewhere," I said. "Tell me have you seen two English girls in the town? They came here day before yesterday."
"They are not at the hotel." "They are nurses."
"I have seen two nurses. Wait a minute, I will findout where they are." "One of them is my wife," I said. "I have come here to meet her." "The otheris my wife."
"I am not joking."

"Pardon my stupid joke," he said. "I did not understand." He went away and was gone quite alittle while. I ate olives, saltedalmonds and potato chips andlooked at myself in civilian clothes in the mirrorbehindthe bar. The bartender came back. "They are at the little hotel near the station," he said.
"How about some sandwiches?"
"I'll ringfor some. You understand there is nothing here, now there are no people." "Isn't there really any one at all?"
"Yes. There are a few people."

The sandwiches came and I ate threeand drank a couple more martinis. I had never tasted anything so cool and clean. Theymade me feel civilized. I hadhad too much red wine, bread, cheese, bad coffee and grappa. I sat on thehigh stoolbefore the pleasant mahogany, thebrass and the mirrors and did not think at all. The barman asked me some question.

"Don't talk about the war," I said. The war was a long way away. Maybe there wasn't any war. There was no war here. Then I realizedit was over for me. But I did not have the feeling thatit was really over. I had the feeling of a boy who thinks of what is happening at a certain hourat the schoolhouse fromwhich he has played truant.

Catherineand Helen Ferguson were at supper when I came to theirhotel. Standing in the hallway I saw them at table. Catherine's face was away fromme and I saw the line 

of her hair and her cheek and herlovely neck and shoulders. Ferguson was talking. She stopped when I came in.
"My God," she said. "Hello," I said.
"Why it's you!" Catherine said. Her facelighted up. Shelooked too happy to believe it. I kissed her. Catherine blushed and I sat down at the table.
"You're a fine mess," Ferguson said. "What are you doing here? Have you eaten?" "No." The girl who was serving the meal came in and I told her to bring a plate for
me. Catherinelooked at me all the time, her eyes happy. "What are you doingin mufti?"Ferguson asked. "I'm in the Cabinet."
"You're in some mess."
"Cheer up, Fergy. Cheer up just a little."
"I'm not cheeredby seeing you. I know the mess you've gottenthis girlinto. You're no cheerful sight to me."
Catherine smiled at me and touched me with her foot under the table. "No one got me in a mess, Fergy. I get in my own messes."
"I can't stand him," Ferguson said. "He's done nothing but ruin you with his sneaking Italian tricks. Americans are worse than Italians."
"The Scotch are such a moral people," Catherine said. "I don't mean that. I mean his Italian sneakiness." "Am I sneaky, Fergy?"
"You are. You're worse than sneaky. You're like a snake. A snake with an Italian uniform: with a cape around your neck."
"I haven't got an Italian uniform now."

"That's just another example of your sneakiness. You had alove affair all summer and got this girl with child and now I supposeyou'll sneak off."
I smiled at Catherine and she smiledat me. "We'll both sneak off," she said.
"You're two of the same thing," Ferguson said. "I'm ashamed of you, Catherine Barkley. You haveno shame and no honorand you're as sneaky as he is."
"Don't, Fergy," Catherine said and patted herhand. "Don't denounce me. You know we like each other."
"Take your hand away," Ferguson said. Her face was red. "If you had any shame it would be different. But you're God knows how many months gone with child and you think it's a joke and are all smiles because your seducer's come back. You've no shame and no feelings." Shebegan to cry. Catherine went over and put her arm around her. As she stood comforting Ferguson, I could see no changein her figure.
"I don't care," Ferguson sobbed. "I think it's dreadful."
"There, there,Fergy," Catherine comforted her. "I'll be ashamed. Don't cry, Fergy. Don't cry, old Fergy."
"I'm not crying," Ferguson sobbed. "I'm not crying. Except for the awful thing you've gotten into." Shelooked at me. "I hate you," she said. "She can't makeme not hate you. You dirty sneaking American Italian." Hereyes and nose were red with crying.
Catherine smiled at me.
"Don't you smile at himwith your arm aroundme." 

"You're unreasonable, Fergy."
"I know it,"Ferguson sobbed. "You mustn't mind me, eitherof you. I'm so upset. I'm not reasonable.I know it. I want you both to be happy."
"We're happy," Catherine said. "You're a sweet Fergy."
Ferguson cried again. "I don't want you happy the way you are. Why don't you get married? You haven't got another wife have you?"
"No," I said. Catherinelaughed.
"It's nothing to laughabout," Ferguson said. "Plenty of them have other wives." "We'll be married, Fergy," Catherine said, "if it will please you."
"Not to please me. You should want to be married." "We've been very busy."
"Yes. I know. Busy making babies." I thought she was going to cry again but she went into bitterness instead. "I suppose you'll go off with him now to­night?"
"Yes," said Catherine. "If he wants me." "What about me?"
"Are you afraid to stay here alone?" "Yes, I am."
"Then I'll stay with you."

"No, go on with him. Go with him right away. I'm sick of seeing both of you." "We'd better finish dinner."
"No. Go right away." "Fergy, be reasonable."

"I say get out right away. Go away both of you." "Let's go then," I said. I was sick of Fergy.
"You do want to go. You see you want to leave me even to eat dinner alone. I've always wanted to go to the Italianlakes and this is how it is. Oh, Oh," she sobbed, then looked at Catherine and choked.

"We'll stay till after dinner," Catherine said. "And I'll not leave you alone if you want me to stay. I won't leave you alone, Fergy."
"No. No. I want you to go. I want you to go." She wiped her eyes. "I'm so unreasonable. Please don't mind me."

The girl who served the meal had been upset by allthe crying. Now as she brought in the next course she seemed relieved that things were better.
That night at the hotel, in our room with thelong empty hall outside andour shoes outside the door, a thick carpet on the floorof the room, outside the windows the rain fallingand in the room light andpleasant and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with smooth sheets and the bed comfortable, feeling that we had come home, feeling no longer alone, waking in thenight to find the other one there, and not gone away; all other things were unreal. 

We slept when we were tired and if we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes tobe alone too and if they love each other they are jealous ofthat in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. It has only happened to me like that once. I have been alone while I was with many girls and that is the way that you can be most lonely. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not 

then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time forlonely people once theirloneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no differencein the night except that it was an even bettertime. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle andthe very braveimpartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no specialhurry.

I rememberwakingin the morning. Catherine was asleep and the sunlight was coming in through the window. The rain had stopped and I stepped out of bed and across the floorto the window. Down below were the gardens, bare now but beautifully regular, the gravel paths,the trees, the stone wall by the lake and the lake in the sunlight with the mountains beyond. I stood at the window looking out and when I turned away I saw Catherine was awake and watching me.

"How are you, darling?" she said. "Isn't it alovely day?" "How do you feel?"
"I feel very well. We had a lovely night." "Do you want breakfast?"
She wanted breakfast. So did I and we hadit in bed, the November sunlight coming in the window, and the breakfast tray across my lap.
"Don't you want the paper? Youalways wanted the paperin the hospital?" "No," I said. "I don't want the paper now."
"Was it so bad you don't want evento read about it?" "I don't want to read about it."
"I wish I hadbeen with you so I would know about it too." "I'll tell you about it if I ever get it straight in my head."
"But won't they arrest you if they catch you out of uniform?" "They'llprobably shoot me."
"Then we'll not stay here. We'llget out of the country." "I'd thought something of that."
"We'll get out. Darling, you shouldn't take silly chances. Tell me how did you come fromMestre to Milan?"
"I came on the train.I was in uniform then." "Weren't you in danger then?"

"Not much. I had an old order of movement. I fixed the dates onit in Mestre." "Darling, you're liable to be arrested here any time. I won't haveit. It's silly to do
something like that. Where would we be if they took you off?" "Let's not think about it. I'm tired of thinking about it." "What would you doif they came to arrest you?" "Shoot them."
"You see how silly you are, I won't let you goout of the hoteluntil we leave here." "Where are we going togo?"
"Please don't be that way, darling. We'll go wherever you say. But please find some place to go right away."
"Switzerlandis down thelake, we can go there." "That will be lovely."
It was cloudingover outside and the lake was darkening. 

"I wish we did not always have tolive like criminals," I said.
"Darling, don't be that way. You haven't livedlike a criminal very long. And we neverlive like criminals. We're going to have a fine time."
"I feellike a criminal. I've deserted from the army."
"Darling, please be sensible. It's not deserting from the army. It's only the Italian army."
I laughed. "You're a fine girl. Let's get back into bed. I feel finein bed." A little while later Catherine said, "You don't feellike a criminal do you?" "No," I said. "Not when I'm with you."

"You're such a silly boy," she said. "But I'lllook after you. Isn't it splendid, darling, that I don't have any morning­sickness?"
"It's grand."
"You don't appreciate what a fine wife youhave. But I don't care. I'llget you some place where they can't arrest you and then we'llhave alovely time."
"Let's go there right away."
"We will, darling. I'll go any placeany time you wish." "Let's not think about anything."
"All right."

35

Catherine went along thelake to the little hotel to see Ferguson and I sat in the bar and read the papers. There were comfortable leather chairs in the bar and I satin one of them and read until the barman came in. Thearmy had not stood at the Tagliamento. They were falling back to the Piave. I remembered the Piave. The railroad crossed it near San Dona going up tothe front. It was deep and slow there andquite narrow. Down below there were mosquito marshes and canals. There were some lovely villas. Once, before the war, goingup to Cortina D'Ampezzo I had gone alongit for several hours in the hills. Up there it looked like a trout stream, flowing swiftly with shallow stretches and pools under the shadow of therocks. Theroad turned off from it at Cadore. I wondered how the army that was up there would come down. The barman came in.

"Count Greffi was asking for you,"he said. "Who?"
"Count Greffi. You remember the old man who was here when you were here before."
"Is he here?"
"Yes, he's here with his niece. I told him you were here. He wants you to play billiards."
"Where is he?" "He's taking a walk." "How is he?" 

"He's younger than ever. He drank three champagne cocktails last night before dinner."
"How's his billiard game?"
"Good. He beat me.When I told him you were here he was very pleased. There's nobody here for him to play with."
Count Greffi was ninety­four years old. He had been a contemporary of Metternich and was an old man with white hair and mustache andbeautiful manners. He had been in the diplomatic service of both Austria and Italy and his birthday parties were the great social event of Milan. He was living tobe onehundred years old and played a smoothly fluent game of billiards that contrasted with his own ninety­four­year­old brittleness. I had met himwhen I had been at Stresa oncebefore out of season and while we played billiards we drank champagne. I thought it was a splendid custom and he gave me fifteen points in a hundred and beat me.

"Why didn't you tell me he was here?" "I forgotit."
"Who else is here?"
"No one you know. There are only six people altogether." "What are you doing now?"
"Nothing."
"Come on out fishing."
"I could come for an hour." "Come on. Bring the trollingline."
The barman put on a coat and we went out.We went down and got a boat and I rowed while the barman satin the stern and let out theline with a spinnerand aheavy sinker on the end to troll forlake trout.We rowed along the shore, the barman holding the linein his hand and giving it occasional jerks forward. Stresalooked very deserted from thelake. There were the long rows of bare trees, the big hotels and the closed villas. I rowed across to Isola Bella and went close to the walls, where the water deepened sharply, and you saw the rock wall slanting down in the clear water, andthen up and along to the fisherman's island. The sun was under a cloud and the water was dark and smooth and very cold.We did not have a strike though we saw some circles on the water from rising fish.

I rowed up opposite the fisherman's island where there were boats drawn up and menwere mending nets.

"Should we get a drink?" "All right."
I brought the boat up to the stone pierand the barman pulledin the line, coiling it on the bottom of the boat and hooking the spinner on the edge of the gunwale. I stepped out and tied the boat. We went into a little café, sat at a bare wooden table and ordered vermouth.
"Are you tired from rowing?" "I'll row back," he said.
"I like to row."
"Maybe if you hold the lineit will change theluck." "All right."
"Tell me how goes the war." 

"Rotten."
"I don't haveto go.I'm too old, like Count Greffi." "Maybe you'll have to go yet."
"Next year they'll call my class. But I won't go." "What will you do?"
"Get out of the country. I wouldn't go to war. I was at the war once in Abyssinia. Nix. Why do you go?"
"I don't know. I was a fool." "Have another vermouth?" "All right."

The barman rowed back. We trolled up thelake beyond Stresa and then down not far from shore. I held thetaut line and felt the faint pulsing of the spinnerrevolving while I looked at the dark November water of the lake and thedeserted shore. The barman rowed with long strokes and on the forward thrust ofthe boat theline throbbed. Once I had a strike: the line hardened suddenly and jerkedback. I pulled and felt thelive weight of the trout and then the linethrobbed again. I had missed him.
"Did he feelbig?" "Pretty big."
"Once when I was out trollingalone I had the linein my teeth and one struck and nearly took my mouth out."
"The best way is tohave it over yourleg," I said. "Then you feelit and don't lose your teeth."
I put my hand in the water. It was very cold. We were almost opposite the hotel now.
"I have to go in," the barman said, "to be there for eleven o'clock. L'heure du cocktail."
"All right."

I pulledin the line and wrapped it on a stick notched ateach end. The barman put the boatin alittle slip in the stone wall and locked it with a chain and padlock.
"Any time you want it,"he said, "I'll give you the key." "Thanks."
We went up to the hotel and into the bar. I did not want another drink so early in the morning so I went up to ourroom. The maid had just finished doingthe room and Catherine was not back yet. Ilay down on thebed andtried to keep from thinking.
When Catherine came back it was all right again. Ferguson was downstairs, she said. She was coming tolunch.
"I knew you wouldn't mind," Catherine said. "No," I said.
"What's the matter, darling?" "I don't know."
"I know. You haven't anything to do. All you have is me and I go away." "That's true."
"I'm sorry, darling. I know it must be a dreadful feeling to have nothing at all suddenly."
"My life used to be full of everything," I said. "Now if you aren't with me I haven't a thing in the world." 

"But I'll be with you. I was only gone for two hours. Isn't there anything you can do?" "I went fishing with the barman."
"Wasn't it fun?" "Yes."
"Don't think about me when I'm not here."
"That's the way I workedit at the front. But there was something to do then." "Othello with his occupation gone," sheteased.
"Othello was a nigger," I said. "Besides, I'm not jealous. I'mjust so in love with you that there isn't anything else."
"Will you be a good boy and be nice to Ferguson?" "I'm always nice toFergusonunless she curses me."
"Be nice to her. Think how muchwe have and she hasn't anything." "I don't think she wants what we have."
"You don't knowmuch, darling, for sucha wise boy." "I'll be nice to her."
"I know you will. You're so sweet." "She won't stay afterward, will she?" "No. I'll get rid of her."
"And then we'll come up here."
"Of course.What do you think I want to do?"

We went downstairs to havelunch with Ferguson. She was very impressed by the hotel andthe splendorof thedining­room. We had a good lunch with a couple of bottles of white capri. Count Greffi came into the dining­room and bowed to us. His niece, who looked a little like my grandmother, was with him. I told Catherine and Ferguson about him and Ferguson was very impressed. The hotelwas very big and grand and empty but the food was good, the wine was very pleasant and finally the wine made us all feel very well. Catherinehad no need to feelany better. She was very happy. Ferguson became quite cheerful. I felt very well myself. Afterlunch Ferguson went back to her hotel. She was going tolie down for a while afterlunch she said.
Along late in the afternoon some one knocked on ourdoor. "Who is it?"

"The Count Greffi wishes to know if you will play billiards with him." I looked at my watch; I had taken it off and it was under the pillow. "Do you have to go, darling?" Catherine whispered.

"I think I'd better."The watch was a quarter­past four o'clock. Out loud I said, "Tell the Count Greffi I will be in thebilliard­room at five o'clock."
At a quarter to five I kissed Catherine good­by and went into the bathroom to dress. Knotting my tie and lookingin the glass Ilooked strange to myself in the civilian clothes. I must remember to buy some more shirts and socks.

"Will you be away a long time?" Catherine asked. She looked lovely in the bed. "Would you hand me the brush?"
I watched her brushingher hair, holding her head so the weight of her hair all came on one side. It was dark outside and thelight over the headof thebed shone on herhair and on her neck and shoulders. I went overand kissed her and held her hand with the brush and her head sunk back on the pillow. I kissedher neck and shoulders. I felt faint with loving her so much. 

"I don't want to go away."
"I don't want you to go away." "I won't go then."
"Yes. Go. It's only for alittle while and then you'll come back." "We'll have dinner up here."
"Hurry and come back."
I found the Count Greffiin the billiard­room. He was practising strokes, looking very fragile under thelight that came down above the billiard table. On a card table a little way beyond the light was a silvericing­bucket with the necks and corks of two champagne bottles showing above theice. The Count Greffi straightened up when I came toward the table and walked toward me. He put out his hand, "It is such a great pleasure that you are here. You were very kind to come to play with me."
"It was very nice of you to ask me."
"Are you quite well? They told me you were wounded on theIsonzo. I hope you are well again."
"I'm very well. Have you been well?"
"Oh, I am always well. But Iamgetting old. I detect signs of age now." "I can't believeit."
"Yes. Do you want to know one? Itis easier for me to talk Italian. I discipline myself but I find when I am tired that it is so much easier to talk Italian. So I know I must be getting old."

"We could talk Italian. Iam a little tired, too."
"Oh, but when you are tired it will be easierfor you to talk English." "American."
"Yes. American. You will please talk American. It is a delightfullanguage." "I hardly ever see Americans."
"You mustmiss them. One misses one's countrymen and especially one's countrywomen. I know that experience. Should we play or are you too tired?"
"I'm not really tired. I said that for a joke. What handicap will yougive me?" "Have you been playing very much?"
"None at all."
"You play very well. Ten points in a hundred?" "You flatter me."
"Fifteen?"
"That would be fine but you will beat me."

"Should we play for a stake? Youalways wished to play for a stake." "I think we'd better."
"All right. I will give you eighteen points and we will play for a franc a point."
He played alovely game of billiards and with the handicap I was only fourahead at fifty. Count Greffi pushed abutton on the wallto ring for the barman.
"Open one bottle please," he said. Then to me, "We will take a little stimulant." The wine was icy cold and very dry and good.
"Should we talk Italian? Would you mind very much? It is my weakness now."
We went on playing, sipping the wine between shots, speakingin Italian, but talking little, concentratedon the game. Count Greffimade his one hundredth point and with the handicap I was only at ninety­four. He smiledand patted me on the shoulder. 

"Nowwe will drink the other bottle and you will tell me about the war." He waited for me to sit down.
"About anything else," I said.
"You don't want to talk about it? Good. What have you been reading?" "Nothing,"I said. "I'm afraid I am very dull."
"No. But you should read."
"What is there written in war­time?"
"There is 'Le Feu' by a Frenchman, Barbusse. There is 'Mr. Britling Sees Through It."
"No, he doesn't." "What?"
"He doesn't see throughit. Those books were at the hospital." "Then you have been reading?"
"Yes, but nothing any good."

"I thought 'Mr. Britling' a very good study of the English middle­class soul." "I don't know about the soul."
"Poor boy.We none of us know about the soul. Are you Croyant?" "At night."
Count Greffi smiled and turned the glass withhis fingers. "I had expected to become more devout as I grow older but somehow I haven't," he said. "It is a great pity."
"Would you like to live after death?" I asked and instantly felt a foolto mention death. But he did not mind the word.
"It would dependon the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever," he smiled. "I very nearly have."
We were sittingin the deep leather chairs, the champagne in the ice­bucket and our glasses on the table between us.
"If you everlive tobe as old as I am you will find many things strange." "You never seem old."
"It is the body that is old. Sometimes I am afraid I will break off a finger as one breaks a stick of chalk. And the spirit is no older and not much wiser."
"You are wise."

"No, thatis the great fallacy; the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful."
"Perhaps thatis wisdom."
"It is a very unattractive wisdom. What do you value most?" "Some one Ilove."
"With me it is the same. That is not wisdom. Do you valuelife?" "Yes."
"So do I. Because it is all I have. And togive birthday parties,"helaughed. "You are probably wiser than I am. You do not give birthday parties."
We both drank the wine.
"What do you think of the war really?" I asked. "I think it is stupid."
"Who will win it?" "Italy."
"Why?" 

"They are a younger nation."
"Do younger nations always win wars?" "They are apt to for a time."
"Then what happens?" "They become oldernations." "You said you were not wise."
"Dear boy, that is not wisdom. That is cynicism." "It sounds very wise to me."
"It's not particularly. I could quote you the examples on the other side. But it is not bad. Have we finished the champagne?"
"Almost."

"Should we drink some more? Then I must dress." "Perhaps we'd better not now."
"You are sure you don't want more?" "Yes." He stood up.
"I hope you will be very fortunate and very happy and very, very healthy." "Thank you. And I hope you will live forever."
"Thank you. I have. And if you ever become devout pray for me if I am dead. I am asking several of my friends to dothat. Ihad expected to become devout myself but it has not come." I thoughthe smiled sadly but I could not tell. He was so old and his face was very wrinkled, so that a smile used so many lines that allgradations were lost.
"I might become very devout," I said. "Anyway, I will pray for you."
"I had always expected to become devout. Allmy family died very devout. But somehow it does not come."
"It's too early."

"Maybe it is too late. Perhaps I have outlivedmy religious feeling." "My own comes only at night."
"Then too you are in love. Do not forget that is a religious feeling." "You believe so?"
"Of course." He took a step toward thetable. "You were very kind toplay." "It was a great pleasure."
"We will walk up stairs together."

36

That night there was a storm and I woke to hear the rain lashing the window­panes. It was coming in the open window. Some one had knocked on the door. I went to the door very softly, not to disturb Catherine, and opened it. The barman stood there. He wore his overcoat and carriedhis wet hat.
"Can I speak to you, Tenente?" "What's the matter?"
"It's a very serious matter." 

I looked around. The room was dark. I saw the water on the floor from the window. "Come in," I said. I took him by the arm into the bathroom; locked the door and put onthe light. I sat down on the edge of the bathtub.
"What's the matter, Emilio? Are you in trouble?" "No. You are, Tenente."
"Yes?"
"They are going to arrest you in the morning." "Yes?"
"I came to tell you. I was out in thetown and I heard them talking in a café." "I see."
He stood there, his coat wet, holdinghis wet hat and said nothing. "Why are they going to arrest me?"
"For something about the war." "Do you know what?"
"No. But I know that they know you were here before as an officer and now you are here out of uniform. After this retreat they arrest everybody."

I thought a minute.
"What time do they come to arrest me?" "In the morning. I don't know the time." "What do you say todo?"
He put his hat in the washbowl. It was very wet and had been dripping on the floor. "If you have nothing to fear an arrest is nothing. But it is always bad to be arrested­­
especially now."
"I don't want to be arrested." "Then go to Switzerland." "How?"
"In my boat."
"There is a storm," I said.
"The storm is over. It is rough but you will beall right." "When should we go?"
"Right away. They might come to arrest you early in the morning." "What about our bags?"
"Get them packed. Get yourlady dressed. I will take care of them." "Where will you be?"
"I will wait here. I don't want any one to see me outsidein the hall."
I opened the door, closedit, and went into the bedroom. Catherine was awake. "What is it, darling?"
"It's all right, Cat," I said. "Would you like to get dressed right away and goin aboat to Switzerland?"
"Would you?"
"No," I said. "I'd like to go back to bed." "What is it about?"
"The barman says they are goingto arrest me in the morning." "Is the barman crazy?"
"No." 

"Then please hurry, darling, andget dressed so we can start." She sat upon the sideof the bed. She was still sleepy. "Is that the barman in the bathroom?"
"Yes."
"Then I won't wash. Please look theother way, darling, and I'll be dressed in just a minute."
I saw her white back as she took off her night­gown and then I looked away because she wanted me to. She was beginning to be a little big with the child and shedid not want me to see her. I dressed hearing the rain on the windows. I did not have much to put in my bag.
"There's plenty of room in my bag, Cat, if youneed any."
"I'm almost packed," she said. "Darling, I'm awfully stupid, but why is the barman in the bathroom?"
"Sh­­he's waiting to take our bags down." "He's awfully nice."
"He's an old friend," I said. "Inearly sent him some pipetobaccoonce."
I looked out the open window at the dark night. I could not see the lake, only the dark and the rain but the wind was quieter.
"I'm ready, darling," Catherine said.
"All right." I went to the bathroom door. "Here are thebags, Emilio," I said. The barman took the two bags.
"You're very good tohelp us," Catherine said.
"That's nothing, lady," thebarman said. "I'm glad to help you just so I don't get in trouble myself. Listen," he said to me. "I'll take these out the servants' stairs and to the boat. You just go out as though you were going for a walk."
"It's a lovely night for a walk," Catherine said. "It's a bad night all right."
"I'm glad I've an umbrella," Catherine said.
We walked down the hall and down the wide thickly carpeted stairs. At the foot of the stairs by the door the porter sat behind his desk.
He looked surprised at seeing us. "You're not going out, sir?"he said.
"Yes," I said."We're goingto seethe storm along thelake." "Haven't you got an umbrella, sir?"
"No," I said. "This coat sheds water."

He looked at it doubtfully. "I'llget you an umbrella, sir," he said. He went away and came back with a big umbrella. "It is a little big, sir," he said. I gave him a ten­lira note. "Oh you are too good, sir. Thank you very much," he said. He held thedooropenand we went out into the rain. He smiledat Catherine and she smiled at him. "Don't stay out in the storm," he said. "You will get wet, sir and lady." He was only the second porter, and his English was stillliterally translated.
"We'll be back," I said. We walkeddown the path under the giant umbrella and out through the dark wet gardens to the road andacross theroad to the trellisedpathway along the lake. The wind was blowing offshore now. It was a cold, wet November wind and I knew it was snowingin the mountains. We came along past the chained boats in the slips along the quay to where the barman's boat should be. The water was dark against the stone. The barman steppedout frombeside the row of trees. 

"The bags are in the boat," he said. "I want to pay you for the boat," I said. "Howmuchmoney have you?"
"Not so much."
"You send me the money later. That will be all right." "Howmuch?"
"What you want." "Tell me howmuch."
"If you get through send me five hundred francs. You won't mind that if you get through."
"All right."
"Here are sandwiches." He handed me a package. "Everything there was in the bar. It's all here. This is a bottle of brandy and a bottle of wine." I put them in my bag. "Let me pay you for those."
"All right, give me fifty lire."
I gaveittohim. "The brandy is good," he said. "You don't need to beafraid to give itto yourlady. She better get in the boat." He held the boat, it rising and falling against the stone wall and I helped Catherinein. She satin the stern and pulled her cape around her.
"You know where to go?" "Up the lake."
"You know how far?" "Past Luino."
"Past Luino, Cannero, Cannobio, Tranzano. You aren't in Switzerland until you come to Brissago. You have to pass Monte Tamara."
"What time is it?" Catherine asked. "It's only eleven o'clock,"I said.
"If you row all the time you ought to bethere by seven o'clock in the morning." "Is it that far?"
"It's thirty­five kilometres."
"How should we go? Inthis rain we need a compass."
"No. Row to Isola Bella. Then on the other side of Isola Madre go with the wind. The wind will take you to Pallanza. You will see thelights. Then go up the shore."
"Maybe the wind will change."
"No," he said. "This wind will blow like this forthree days. It comes straight down from the Mattarone. There is a can to bail with."
"Let me pay you something for the boat now."
"No, I'd rather take a chance. If you get through you pay me all you can." "All right."
"I don't think you'll get drowned." "That's good."
"Go with the wind up thelake." "All right."
I steppedin the boat.
"Did youleave the money for the hotel?" "Yes. In an envelope in the room."
"All right. Good luck, Tenente." 

"Good luck. We thank you many times." "You won't thank me if you get drowned." "What does he say?" Catherine asked. "He says good luck."
"Good luck," Catherine said. "Thank you very much." "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
He bent down and shoved us off. Idug at the water with the oars, then waved one hand. The barmanwaved back deprecatingly. I saw the lights of the hotel and rowed out, rowing straight out until they were out of sight. There was quite a searunning but we were going with the wind.

37

I rowed in the dark keeping the wind in my face. Therain had stopped and only came occasionally in gusts. It was very dark, and the wind was cold. I could see Catherine in the stern butI could not see the water where the blades of the oars dipped. The oars were long and there were no leathers to keepthem from slipping out.I pulled, raised, leaned forward, found the water, dipped and pulled, rowingas easily as I could. I did not featherthe oars because the wind was with us. I knewmy hands would blisterand I wanted to delay it as long as I could. The boat was light androwed easily. I pulled it along in the dark water. I could not see, andhoped we would soon come opposite Pallanza.

We never saw Pallanza. The wind was blowing up thelake and we passed the point that hides Pallanza in the dark and never saw the lights. When we finally saw some lights much further up thelakeand close to the shore it was Intra. But for a long time we did not see any lights, nordid we see the shore but rowed steadily in the dark riding with the waves. Sometimes Imissed the water with the oars in the dark as a wave lifted the boat. It was quiterough; but I kept on rowing, until suddenly we were close ashore against a point of rock that rose besideus; the waves striking against it, rushing high up, then fallingback. Ipulled hard on the right oar andbacked water with the other and we went out into the lake again; the point was out of sight and we were going on up the lake.

"We're across thelake," I said to Catherine. "Weren't we going to see Pallanza?" "We've missedit."
"How are you, darling?" "I'm fine."
"I could take the oars awhile." "No, I'm fine."
"Poor Ferguson," Catherine said. "In the morning she'll come to the hotel and find we're gone." 

"I'm not worrying so much about that," I said, "as about gettinginto the Swiss part of thelakebefore it's daylight and the customguards see us."
"Is it along way?"
"It's some thirty kilometres from here."

I rowed all night. Finally my hands were so sore I could hardly close them over the oars. We were nearly smashed up on the shore several times. I kept fairly close to the shore because I was afraid of gettinglost on the lake and losing time. Sometimes we were so close we could see a row of trees and the road along the shore with the mountains behind. The rain stopped and the wind drove the clouds sothat the moon shone through and lookingback I could see thelong dark point of Castagnola and thelake with white­ caps and beyond, the moon on the high snow mountains. Then the clouds came over the moon again and the mountains and thelake were gone, but it was much lighter thanit had been before and we could see the shore. I could seeit too clearly and pulled out where they would not see the boat if there were customguards along the Pallanza road. When the moon came out again we could see white villas on the shore on the slopes of the mountain and thewhite road where it showed throughthe trees. All the time I was rowing.

Thelake widened and across it on the shore at the foot of the mountains on the other side we saw a few lights that should beLuino. I saw a wedgelike gap between the mountains on the other shore andI thought that must be Luino. If it was we were making good time. I pulled in theoars andlay back on the seat.I was very, very tired of rowing. My arms and shoulders and back ached andmy hands were sore.

"I could hold the umbrella," Catherine said. "We could sail with that with the wind." "Can you steer?"
"I think so."
"You take this oar and hold it under your arm closeto the side of the boat and steer and I'll hold the umbrella." I went back to the stern and showed herhow to hold the oar. I took the big umbrella the porter had given me and sat facing thebow and openedit. It opened witha clap. I held it on both sides, sitting astride the handle hooked over the seat. The wind was fullin it and I felt the boat suck forward while I held as hard as I could to the two edges. It pulledhard. Theboat was moving fast.

"We're going beautifully," Catherine said. All I could see was umbrella ribs. The umbrella strained and pulled and I felt us driving along with it. I braced my feet and held back on it, then suddenly, it buckled; I felt a rib snap on my forehead, I tried to grabthe top that was bending with the wind and the whole thing buckled and went inside out and I was astride the handle of an inside­out, ripped umbrella, where I had been holding a wind­filled pulling sail. I unhooked the handle from the seat, laid theumbrella in the bow and went back to Catherine for the oar. She was laughing. She took my hand and kept on laughing.

"What's the matter?" I took the oar. "You looked so funny holding that thing." "I suppose so."
"Don't be cross, darling. It was awfully funny. You looked about twenty feet broad and very affectionate holding the umbrella by the edges­­" she choked.
"I'll row."
"Take a rest and a drink. It's a grand night and we've come a long way." "I have to keep the boat out of the trough of the waves."
"I'll get you a drink. Then rest a little while, darling." 

I held the oars up and we sailed with them. Catherine was opening thebag. She handed me the brandy bottle. I pulled the cork with my pocket­knife and took along drink. It was smooth and hot and theheat went all through me and I felt warmed and cheerful. "It's lovely brandy," I said. The moon was under again but I could see the shore. There seemed to be another point going out a long way ahead into thelake.
"Are you warm enough, Cat?" "I'm splendid. I'm a little stiff."
"Bail out that water and you can put yourfeet down."
Then I rowed andlistened to the oarlocks and the dip and scrape of the bailingtin under the stern seat.
"Would you give me the bailer?" I said. "I want a drink." "It's awfuldirty."
"That's all right. I'llrinseit."
I heard Catherine rinsing it over the side. Then she handed it to me dipped fullof water. I was thirsty after the brandy and the water was icy cold, so cold it made my teeth ache. I looked toward the shore. We were closer to the long point. There were lights in the bay ahead.
"Thanks," I said and handed back the tin pail.
"You're ever so welcome," Catherine said. "There's much more if you want it." "Don't you want to eat something?"
"No. I'll be hungry in a little while. We'll save it till then." "All right."
What looked like a point ahead was along high headland. I went further out in the laketo pass it. The lake was much narrower now. The moon was out again and the guardia di finanza could have seenourboat black on the waterif they had been watching.
"How are you, Cat?" I asked. "I'm allright. Where are we?"

"I don't think we have more than about eight miles more." "That's along way to row, you poor sweet. Aren't you dead?" "No. I'm all right. My hands are sore is all."
We went on up the lake. There was a break in the mountains on theright bank, a flattening­out with a low shore line that I thought must be Cannobio. I stayed a long way out because it was from now on that we ran the most danger of meeting guardia. There was a high dome­capped mountain on the other shore a way ahead. I was tired. It was no great distance torow but when you were out of conditionit had been a long way. I knew I had to pass that mountain and go up the lakeat least five miles furtherbefore we would be in Swiss water. The moon was almost down now but before it went down the sky clouded over again andit was very dark. I stayed wellout in thelake, rowing awhile, then resting and holding the oars so that the wind struck theblades.
"Let me row awhile," Catherine said. "I don't think you ought to."

"Nonsense. It would be good for me. It would keep me from being too stiff." "I don't think you should, Cat."
"Nonsense. Rowing in moderation is very good for the pregnant lady."
"All right, you row a little moderately. I'll go back, then you come up. Hold on to both gunwales when you come up." 

I sat in the stern with my coat on and the collar turned upand watched Catherine row. She rowed very wellbut the oars were too long and botheredher. I opened the bag and atea couple of sandwiches andtook a drink of the brandy. It made everything much better and I took anotherdrink.
"Tell me when you're tired," I said. Then alittle later, "Watch out the oar doesn't pop you in the tummy."
"If it did"­­Catherine said between strokes­­"life might be much simpler." I took anotherdrink of the brandy.
"How are you going?" "All right."
"Tell me when you want to stop." "All right."
I took anotherdrink of the brandy, then took hold of thetwo gunwales of the boat and moved forward.
"No. I'm goingbeautifully."
"Go on back to the stern. I've hada grand rest."
For a while, with the brandy, I rowed easily and steadily. Then Ibegan to catch crabs and soon I was just chopping along again with a thin brown taste of bile from having rowed too hard after the brandy.

"Give me a drink of water, will you?" I said. "That's easy," Catherine said.
Before daylight it started to drizzle. The windwas down or we were protected by mountains that bounded the curve the lake had made. When I knew daylight was coming I settled down and rowed hard. I did not know where we were and I wanted to get into the Swiss part of the lake. When it was beginningto be daylight we were quite close to the shore. I could seethe rocky shore and the trees.

"What's that?" Catherine said. I rested on the oars and listened. It was a motor boat chugging out on thelake. I pulled close up to the shore and lay quiet.The chugging came closer; then we saw the motor boat in the rain a little astern of us. There were four guardia di finanza in the stern, their alpini hats pulleddown, their cape collars turned up andtheir carbines slung across theirbacks. They alllooked sleepy soearly in the morning. I could see the yellow on their hats and the yellowmarks on their cape collars. The motor boat chugged on and out of sight in the rain.

I pulled out into the lake. If we were that close to the border I did not want to be hailed by a sentry along the road. I stayed out where I could just see the shore and rowed on for threequarters of an hourin the rain. We heard a motor boat once more but I kept quiet until the noise of the engine went away across thelake.
"I think we're in Switzerland, Cat," I said. "Really?"
"There's no way to know until we see Swiss troops." "Or the Swiss navy."
"The Swiss navy's no joke forus. That last motor boat we heard was probably the Swiss navy."
"If we're in Switzerland let's have abig breakfast. They have wonderful rolls and butter and jam in Switzerland." 

It was clear daylight now and a fine rain was falling. The wind was still blowing outside up the lakeand we could see the tops of the white­caps going away from us and up the lake. I was sure we were in Switzerland now. There were many houses back in the trees from the shore and up the shore a way was a village with stone houses, some villas on the hills and a church. I had been looking at the road that skirtedthe shore for guards but did not see any. The road came quite close to thelake now and I saw a soldier coming out of a café onthe road. He wore a gray­green uniform and a helmet like the Germans. He had a healthy­looking face and a little toothbrush mustache. He looked at us.

"Wave to him," I said to Catherine. She waved and the soldier smiled embarrassedly and gave a wave of his hand. I eased up rowing. We were passing the waterfront of the village.
"We must be wellinside the border," I said.
"We want to be sure, darling.We don't want them to turn us back atthe frontier." "The frontieris along way back. I think this isthe customs town. I'm pretty sure it's
Brissago."
"Won't there be Italians there? There are always both sides at a customs town." "Not in war­time. I don't think they let the Italians cross the frontier."
It was a nice­lookinglittle town. There were many fishing boats along thequay and nets were spread on racks. There was a fineNovember rain falling but it looked cheerful and clean even with the rain.

"Should we land thenand have breakfast?" "All right."
I pulled hard onthe left oarand came in close, then straightened out when we were closeto the quay and brought the boat alongside. I pulledin the oars, took hold of aniron ring, stepped up on the wet stone and was in Switzerland. I tied the boat and held my hand down to Catherine.
"Come on up, Cat. It's a grand feeling." "What about thebags?"
"Leave them in the boat."
Catherine stepped up and we were in Switzerland together. "What alovely country," she said.
"Isn't it grand?"
"Let's go and have breakfast!"
"Isn't it a grand country? I love the way it feels under my shoes."
"I'm so stiff I can't feelit very well. But it feels like a splendid country. Darling, do you realize we're here and out of that bloody place?"
"I do. Ireally do. I've never realized anything before."
"Look at the houses. Isn't this a fine square?There's a place we can get breakfast." "Isn't the rain fine? They neverhad rainlike this in Italy. It's cheerful rain."
"And we're here, darling! Do you realize we're here?"
We went inside the café and sat down at a clean wooden table. We were cockeyed excited. A splendid clean­looking woman with an apron came and asked us what we wanted.
"Rolls and jam and coffee," Catherine said. "I'm sorry, we haven't any rolls in war­time." "Bread then." 

"I can make you some toast." "All right."
"I want some eggs friedtoo." "Howmany eggs for the gentleman?" "Three."
"Take four, darling." "Four eggs."
The woman went away. I kissed Catherine and held her hand very tight. We looked at each other and at the café.
"Darling, darling, isn't it lovely?" "It's grand," I said.
"I don't mind there not being rolls," Catherinesaid. "I thought about them allnight. But I don't mind it. I don't mindit at all."
"I suppose pretty soon they will arrest us."
"Never mind, darling. We'llhave breakfast first. You won't mind being arrested after breakfast. And then there's nothing they cando to us. We're British and American citizens in good standing."

"You have a passport, haven't you?"
"Of course. Ohlet's not talk about it. Let's be happy."
"I couldn't be any happiei" I said. A fat gray cat with a tail that liftedlike a plume crossed the floor to our table and curved against my leg to purr each time she rubbed. I reached down and stroked her. Catherine smiled at me very happily. "Here comes the coffee," she said.
They arrested us after breakfast. We took a little walk through the village then went down to the quay to get our bags. A soldier was standingguard over the boat.
"Is this your boat?" "Yes."
"Where do you come from?" "Up the lake."
"Then I have to ask you to come with me." "How about the bags?"
"You can carry the bags."
I carried the bags and Catherine walkedbeside me and the soldier walked along behind us to the old custom house. In the custom house a lieutenant, very thin and military, questionedus.
"What nationality are you?" "American and British."
"Let me see your passports."
I gave himmine and Catherine got hers out of her handbag. He examined them for a long time.
"Why do you enter Switzerland this way in a boat?"
"I am a sportsman," I said. "Rowingis my great sport. I always rowwhen I get a chance."
"Why do you come here?"
"For the winter sport. We are tourists and we want to do the winter sport." "This is no place for winter sport." 

"We know it. We want to go where they have the winter sport." "What have you been doing in Italy?"
"I have been studying architecture. My cousin has been studyingart." "Why do you leave there?"
"We want to do the winter sport. With the wargoing on you cannot study architecture."
"You will please stay where you are," the lieutenant said. He went back into the building with our passports.
"You're splendid,darling," Catherine said. "Keep on the same track. You want to do the winter sport."
"Do you know anythingabout art?" "Rubens," said Catherine.
"Large and fat," I said. "Titian," Catherine said.
"Titian­haired," I said. "How about Mantegna?"

"Don't ask hard ones," Catherine said. "I know him though­­very bitter." "Very bitter," I said. "Lots of nail holes."
"You see I'll make you a fine wife," Catherinesaid. "I'll be able to talk art with your customers."
"Here he comes," I said. Thethin lieutenant came down the length ofthe custom house, holding our passports.
"I will have to send you into Locarno," he said. "You can get a carriage and a soldier will goin with you."
"All right," I said. "What about the boat?"
"The boat is confiscated. What have youin those bags?"

He went all through the two bags and held up the quarterbottle of brandy. "Would you join me in a drink?" I asked.
"No thank you." He straightenedup. "How much money have you?" "Twenty­five hundredlire."
He was favorably impressed. "Howmuch has your cousin?"

Catherinehad a little overtwelve hundredlire. Thelieutenant was pleased. His attitude toward us became less haughty.
"If you are going for winter sports," he said, "Wengenis the place. My father has a very fine hotel at Wengen. It is open all the time."
"That's splendid," I said. "Could you give me the name?"
"I will write it on a card." He handed me the card very politely.

"The soldier will take youintoLocarno. He will keep your passports. Iregret this but it is necessary. I havegoodhopes they will give you a visa or a police permit at Locarno."
He handed the two passports to the soldier and carrying the bags we startedinto the village toorder a carriage. "Hi," thelieutenant called to the soldier. He said something in a German dialect to him. The soldier slung his rifle on his back and picked up thebags.

"It's a great country," I said to Catherine. "It's sopractical."
"Thank you very much," I said to thelieutenant. He waved his hand. "Service!" he said.We followed our guard into the village. 

We drove to Locarnoin a carriage with the soldier sitting on the front seat with the driver. At Locarno we did not have a badtime. They questioned us but they were polite because we had passports and money. I do not think they believed a word of the story and I thoughtit was silly but it was like a law­court. You did not want something reasonable, you wanted something technical and then stuck toit without explanations. But we had passports and we would spend the money. So they gave us provisional visas.

At any time this visa might be withdrawn. We were to report to the police wherever we went.
Could we go wherever we wanted? Yes. Where did we want to go? "Where do you want to go, Cat?"
"Montreux."
"It is a very nice place," the official said. "I think you willlike that place."
"Here atLocarnois a very nice place," another official said. "I am sure you would like it here very much at Locarno. Locarnois a very attractive place."
"We would like some place where there is winter sport." "There is no winter sport at Montreux."
"I beg your pardon," the other official said. "I come fromMontreux. There is very certainly winter sport on the Montreux Oberland Bernois railway. It would be false for you to deny
that."
"I do not deny it. I simply said there is no winter sport at Montreux." "I question that," the otherofficial said. "I question that statement." "I hold tothat statement."
"I question that statement. I myself have _luge­ed_ into the streets of Montreux. I have done it notonce but several times. Luge­ing is certainly winter sport."
The other official turned to me.
"Is luge­ing your idea of winter sport, sir? I tell you you would be very comfortable here in Locarno. You would find the climate healthy, you would find the environs attractive. You would like it very much."
"The gentleman has expressed a wish to go to Montreux." "What is luge­ing?" I asked.
"You see he has never even heard of luge­ing!"
That meant a great deal to the second official. He was pleased by that. "Luge­ing," said the first official, "is tobogganing."
"I beg to differ," the other official shook his head. "I must differ again. The toboggan is very different from the luge. The toboggan is constructed in Canada offlat laths. The luge is a common sled with runners. Accuracymeans something."
"Couldn't we toboggan?" I asked.
"Of course you could toboggan," the first official said. "You could toboggan very well. Excellent Canadiantoboggans are sold in Montreux. Ochs Brothers sell toboggans. They import their own toboggans."

The second official turned away. "Tobogganing," he said, "requires a special piste. You could not tobogganintothe streets of Montreux. Where are you stopping here?"
"We don't know," I said. "We just drovein from Brissago. The carriage is outside." "You make no mistake in going to Montreux," the first official said. "You will find the
climate delightful andbeautiful. You will have no distance to go for winter sport." 

"If you really want winter sport," the second official said, "you will go to the Engadine orto Mürren. I must protest against your being advisedto go to Montreux for the winter sport."
"At Les Avants above Montreux there is excellent winter sport of every sort." The champion of Montreux glared at his colleague.
"Gentlemen," I said, "I am afraid we must go. My cousin is very tired. We will go tentatively to Montreux."
"I congratulate you," the first official shook my hand.
"I believe that you will regret leaving Locarno," the second official said. "At any rate you willreport to the police at Montreux."
"There willbe no unpleasantness with the police," the first official assured me. "You will find all theinhabitants extremely courteous and friendly."
"Thank you both very much," I said. "We appreciate your advice very much." "Good­by," Catherine said. "Thank you both very much."
They bowed us tothe dooi the champion of Locarno a little coldly. We went down the steps andinto the carriage.
"My God, darling," Catherine said. "Couldn't we have gotten away any sooner?" I gave thename of a hotel one of the officials had recommended to the driver. He picked up the reins.
"You've forgotten the army," Catherine said. The soldier was standing by the carriage. I gave him a ten­lira note. "I have no Swiss money yet," I said. He thanked me, saluted and went off. 

The carriage started and we drove to the hotel.
"How did you happen to pick out Montreux?" I asked Catherine. "Do youreally want to go there?"
"It was the first place I could think of," she said. "It's not abad place. We can find some place up in the mountains."
"Are you sleepy?" "I'm asleep right now."
"We'll get a good sleep. Poor Cat, you had a long badnight."
"I had a lovely time," Catherine said. "Especially when you sailed with the umbrella."
"Can you realize we're in Switzerland?"
"No, I'm afraid I'll wake up and it won't be true." "I am too."
"It is true, isn't it, darling? I'm not just driving down to the stazione in Milan to see you off."
"I hopenot."
"Don't say that. It frightens me. Maybe that's where we're going." "I'm so groggy I don't know," I said.
"Let me see your hands."
I put them out. They were both blisteredraw. "There's no hole in my side," I said.
"Don't be sacrilegious."
I felt very tired and vague in the head. The exhilaration was all gone. The carriage was going along the Street.
"Poor hands," Catherine said. 

"Don't touch them," I said. "By God I don't knowwhere we are. Where are we going, driver?"Thedriver stopped his horse.
"To the Hotel Metropole. Don't you want togothere?" "Yes," I said."It's allright, Cat."
"It's all right, darling. Don't be upset. We'll get a good sleep and you won't feel groggy to­morrow."
"I get pretty groggy," I said. "It's like a comic opera to­day. Maybe I'm hungry." "You're just tired, darling. You'll be fine." Thecarriage pulled up before the hotel.
Some one came out to take our bags.
"I feel all right," I said.We were down on the pavement goinginto the hotel. "I know you'll be allright. You're just tired. You've been up along time." "Anyhowwe're here."
"Yes, we're really here."
We followed the boy with the bags into the hotel.

BOOK FIVE

38


That fall the snow came very late. We livedin a brown wooden house in the pine trees on the sideof the mountain and at night there was frost so that there was thin ice over the waterin the two pitchers on the dresserin the morning. Mrs. Guttingen came into the room early in the morning to shut the windows and started a fire in the tall porcelain stove. The pine wood crackled and sparked and then the fire roaredin the stove and the second time Mrs. Guttingen came into the room she brought big chunks of wood forthe fire anda pitcher of hot water. When the room was warm she brought in breakfast. Sitting up in bedeatingbreakfast we could see the lake and the mountains across the lake onthe French side. There was snow on the tops of the mountains and thelake was a gray steel­ blue.

Outside, in front of the chalet a road went up the mountain. The wheel ruts and ridges were ironhard with the frost,and the road climbed steadily through the forest and up and around the mountain to where there were meadows, and barns and cabins in the meadows at the edge of the woods lookingacross the valley. The valley was deep and there was a stream at the bottom that floweddown into the lake and when the windblew across the valley you could hear the stream in the rocks.

Sometimes we went off the road and on a path through the pine forest.The floor of the forest was soft to walk on; the frost did not harden it as it did the road. But we did not mind the hardness of the road because we had nails in the soles and heels of ourboots 

and theheel nails bit on the frozen ruts and with nailed boots it was good walking on the road and invigorating. But it was lovely walking in the woods.
In front of the house where we lived the mountain went down steeply to thelittle plain along thelake and we sat on the porch of the house in the sun and saw the winding of the road down the mountain­sideand the terraced vineyards on the side of the lower mountain, the vines all dead now for the winter and the fields divided by stone walls, and below the vineyards the houses of the town on the narrow plain along the lake shore. There was an island with two trees on thelake and the trees lookedlike the double sails of a fishing­boat. The mountains were sharp and steep onthe other side of the lake and down at the end of the lake was the plain of the Rhone Valley flat between the two ranges of mountains; and up the valley where the mountains cut it off was the Dent du Midi. It was a high snowy mountain andit dominated the valley but it was so faraway that it did not make a shadow.

When the sun was bright we ate lunch on the porch but the rest of the time we ate upstairs in a small roomwith plain wooden walls and a big stovein the corner. We bought books and magazines in the town and a copyof "Hoyle" andlearned many two­handed card games. The smallroom with the stove was ourliving­room. There were two comfortable chairs and a table for books andmagazines and we played cards on the dining­table when it was cleared away. Mr. and Mrs. Guttingen lived downstairs and we would hear them talking sometimes in theevening and they were very happy together too. He had been a headwaiter and she had worked as maid in the same hotel and they had saved their money to buy this place. They had a son who was studyingto bea headwaiter. He was at a hotelin Zurich. Downstairs there was a parlor where they sold wine and beer, and sometimes in the eveningwe would hear carts stop outside on the road and men come up the steps to go in theparlor to drink wine.

There was a box of wood in thehall outside the living­room and I kept up the fire from it. But we did not stay up very late. We went to bed in the dark in the big bedroom and when I was undressed I opened the windows and saw the night and the cold stars and thepine trees below the window and then got into bed as fast as I could. It was lovely in bed with the air so cold and clearand the night outside the window. We slept well andif I woke in the night I knew it was from only one cause and I would shift the feather bed over, very softly so that Catherine would not be wakened and then goback to sleep again, warm and with the new lightness of thin covers. The war seemed as far away as the football games of some one else's college. But I knew from the papers that they were still fightingin the mountains because the snow would not come.

Sometimes we walked down the mountain into Montreux. There was a path went down the mountain but it was steep and sousually we took the road and walked down on the wide hard road between fields and then below between the stone walls of the vineyards and on down between the houses of the villages along the way. There were three villages; Chernex, Fontanivent, and the other I forget. Then along theroad we passed an old square­built stone château on a ledge on the side of the mountain­side with the terraced fields of vines, each vine tied to a stick to hold it up, the vines dry andbrown and theearthready for the snow and the lakedown below flat and gray as steel. The road went down a long grade below the château and then turned to the right and went down very steeply and paved with cobbles, into Montreux. 

We did not know any one in Montreux. We walkedalong beside the lake and saw the swans and the many gulls and terns that flew up when you came close and screamed while they looked down at the water. Out on the lake there were flocks of grebes, small and dark, andleaving trails in the water when they swam.

In the town we walked along the main street and lookedin the windows of the shops. There were many big hotels that were closed but most of the shops were open and the people were very glad to see us. There was a fine coiffeur's place where Catherine went to have herhair done. The womanwho ran it was very cheerful and the only person we knew in Montreux. While Catherine was there I went up to a beer placeand drank dark Munich beer and read thepapers. I read the Corriere della Sera and the English and American papers from Paris. All the advertisements were blacked out, supposedly to prevent communicationin that way with the enemy. The papers were bad reading. 

Everything was going very badly everywhere. I sat back in the corner with a heavy mug of dark beer and an opened glazed­paper package of pretzels and ate the pretzels for the salty flavor and the good way they made the beer taste and read about disaster. I thought Catherine would come by but she did not come, so I hung the papers back on therack, paid for my beer and went up the street to look for her. The day was cold and dark and wintry and the stone of the houses looked cold. Catherine was stillin the hairdresser's shop. The woman was waving her hair. I satin thelittle booth and watched. It was exciting to watch and Catherine smiled and talked tome andmy voice was a little thick from being excited. The tongs made a pleasant clicking sound and I could see Catherinein three mirrors andit was pleasant and warm in the booth. Then the woman put up Catherine's hair, and Catherinelooked in the mirror and changedit a little, taking out and puttingin pins; then stood up. "I'm sorry to have taken such a long time."

"Monsieur was very interested. Were you not, monsieur?" the woman smiled. "Yes," I said.
We went out and up the street. It was cold and wintry and the wind was blowing. "Oh, darling, I love you so," I said.
"Don't we have a fine time?" Catherine said. "Look. Let's go some place and have beerinstead of tea. It's very goodfor young Catherine. It keeps her small."
"Young Catherine," I said. "That loafer."
"She's been very good," Catherine said. "Shemakes very little trouble. The doctor says beer will be good for me and keep her small."
"If you keep her small enough and she's a boy, maybe he willbe a jockey."
"I suppose if we really have this child we ought to get married," Catherine said. We were in the beer place at the corner table. It was gettingdark outside. It was still early but the day was dark and the dusk was coming early.
"Let's get married now," I said.
"No," Catherine said. "It's too embarrassing now. I show too plainly. I won't go before any one and be marriedin this state."
"I wish we'd gotten married."
"I suppose it would have been better. But when could we, darling?" "I don't know."
"I know one thing. I'm not going to be marriedin this splendid matronly state." "You're not matronly." 

"Oh yes, Iam, darling. The hairdresser askedme if this was our first. I liedand said no, we had two boys and two girls."
"When will we be married?"
"Any time after I'm thin again. We want to have a splendid wedding with every one thinking what a handsome young couple."
"And you're not worried?"
"Darling, why should I be worried? The only time I ever felt badly was when I felt like a whore in Milan and that only lasted seven minutes and besides it was the room furnishings. Don't I make you a good wife?"
"You're a lovely wife."
"Then don't be too technical, darling. I'll marry you as soon as I'm thin again." "All right."
"Do you think I ought to drink anotherbeer? The doctor said I was rather narrow in the hips and it's all for the best if we keep young Catherine small."
"What else did he say?" I was worried.
"Nothing. Ihave a wonderful blood­pressure,darling. Headmired my blood­ pressure greatly."
"What did he say about youbeing too narrow in the hips?" "Nothing. Nothing atall. He said I shouldn't ski."
"Quite right."
"He said it was too late to startif I'd never done it before. He said I could skiif I wouldn't falldown."
"He's just a big­hearted joker."
"Really he was very nice. We'll have him when the baby comes." "Did you ask him if you ought to get married?"
"No. I told him we'd been married four years. You see, darling, if I marry you I'll be an American and any time we're married under Americanlaw the child is legitimate."
"Where did you find that out?"
"In the New York World Almanac in the library." "You're a grand girl."
"I'll be very gladto bean American and we'll go to America won't we, darling? I want to see Niagara Falls."
"You're a fine girl."
"There's something else I want to see but I can't remember it." "The stockyards?"
"No. I can't remember it." "TheWoolworth building?" ''No."
"The Grand Canyon?"
"No. But I'd like to see that." "What was it?"
"The Golden Gate! That's what I want to see. Where is the Golden Gate?" "San Francisco."
"Then let's go there. I want to see San Francisco anyway." "All right. We'll go there."
"Now let's go up the mountain. Should we? Can we get the M.O.B.?" 

"There's a train a little after five." "Let's get that."
"All right. I'll drink one more beer first."
When we went out to go up the street and climb the stairs to the station it was very cold. A cold wind was coming down the Rhone Valley. There were lights in the shop windows and we climbed the steep stone stairway to the upper street, thenup another stairs to the station. The electric train was there waiting, all the lights on. There was a dial that showed when it left. The clock hands pointed to ten minutes after five. I looked at the station clock. It was five minutes after. As we got on board I saw the motorman and conductor coming out of the station wine­shop. We sat down and opened the window. The train was electrically heated and stuffy but fresh cold air came in through the window.
"Are you tired, Cat?" I asked. "No. I feel splendid."
"It isn't a long ride."
"I like the ride," she said. "Don't worry about me, darling. I feel fine."

Snow did not come until threedays before Christmas. We woke one morning and it was snowing. We stayedin bed with the fire roaringin the stove and watched the snow fall. Mrs. Guttingen took away the breakfast trays and put more wood in the stove. It was a big snow storm. She said it had started about midnight. I went tothe window and looked out but could not see across theroad. It was blowingand snowing wildly. I went back to bed and we lay and talked.

"I wish I could ski," Catherine said. "It's rottennot to be able to ski."
"We'll get a bobsled and come down the road. That's no worse for you than riding in a car."
"Won't it be rough?" "We can see."
"I hopeit won't be too rough."
"After a while we'll take a walk in the snow."
"Before lunch," Catherine said, "so we'll have a good appetite." "I'm always hungry."
"So am I."

We went outin the snow but it was drifted so that we could not walk far. I went ahead and made a trail down to the station but when we reached there we had gonefar enough. The snow was blowing so we could hardly see and we went into the little innby the stationand swept eachother off with a broom and sat on a benchand had vermouths.

"It is a big storm," the barmaid said. "Yes."
"The snow is very late this year." "Yes."
"Could I eat a chocolate bar?" Catherine asked. "Oris it too closeto lunch? I'm always hungry."
"Go on and eatone," I said.
"I'll take one with filberts," Catherine said.
"They are very good," the girl said, "I like them the best." "I'll have another vermouth," I said. 

When we came out to start back up the road our track was filled in by the snow. There were only faintindentations where theholes had been. The snow blew in our faces so we could hardly see. We brushed off and went in to havelunch. Mr. Guttingen served thelunch.

"To­morrow there will be ski­ing," he said. "Do you ski, Mr. Henry?" "No. But I want to learn."
"You willlearn very easily. My boy will be here for Christmas and he will teach you." "That's fine. When does he come?"
"To­morrow night."
When we were sitting by the stove in thelittleroom after lunchlooking out the window at the snow coming down Catherine said, "Wouldn't you like to goon a trip somewhere by yourself, darling, and be with men and ski?"
"No. Why should I?"
"I should think sometimes you would want to see other people besides me." "Do you want to seeother people?"
"No." "Neither do I."
"I know. But you're different. I'm having a child and that makes me contented not to do anything. I know I'm awfully stupid now and I talk too much and I think you ought to get away so you won't be tired of me."
"Do you want me to go away?" "No. I want you to stay." "That's what I'm going to do."
"Come over here," she said. "I want to feel the bump on your head. It's a big bump." She ran her finger overit. "Darling, would youlike to grow a beard?"
"Would you like me to?"
"It might be fun. I'd like to see you with a beard."
"All right. I'll grow one. I'll start now this minute. It's a goodidea. It will give me something to do."
"Are you worried because you haven't anything to do?" "No. I like it. I have a fine life. Don't you?"
"I have a lovely life. But I was afraid because I'm big now that maybe I was a bore to you."
"Oh, Cat. You don't know how crazy I am about you." "This way?"
"Just the way you are. I have a fine time. Don't we have a goodlife?" "I do, but I thought maybe you were restless."
"No. Sometimes I wonder about the front andabout people I know but I don't worry. I don't think about anything much."
"Who do you wonder about?"
"About Rinaldi and the priest andlots of people I know. But I don't think about them much. I don't want to think about the war. I'm through with it."
"What are you thinking about now?" "Nothing."
"Yes you were. Tell me."
"I was wondering whether Rinaldi had the syphilis." 

"Was that all?" "Yes."
"Has he the syphilis?" "I don't know."
"I'm glad you haven't. Did you everhave anything like that?" "I had gonorrhea."
"I don't want to hear about it.Was it very painful, darling?" "Very."
"I wish I'd had it." "No you don't."
"I do. I wish I'd hadit to belike you. I wish I'd stayed with all your girls so I could make fun of them to you."
"That's a pretty picture."
"It's not a pretty picture you havinggonorrhea." "I know it. Look atit snow now."
"I'd ratherlook at you. Darling, why don't youlet your hair grow?" "How grow?"
"Just grow alittle longer." "It's long enough now."
"No, let it grow a little longerand I could cut mineand we'd be just alike only one of us blonde and one of us dark."
"I wouldn't let you cut yours."
"It would be fun. I'm tired of it. It's an awful nuisancein the bed at night." "I like it."
"Wouldn't youlike it short?" "I might. I like it the way it is."
"It might be nice short. Then we'd both be alike. Oh, darling, I want you so much I want to be you too."
"You are.We're the same one." "I know it. At night we are." "The nights are grand."
"I want us to be all mixed up. I don't want you to go away. I just said that. Yougoif you want to. But hurry right back. Why, darling, I don't live at all when I'm not with you."
"I won't ever go away," I said. "I'm no good when you're not there. I haven't any life at all any more."
"I want you to have a life. I want you to have a fine life. But we'llhave it together, won't we?"
"And now do you want me to stop growing my beard orlet it go on?" "Go on. Grow it. It will be exciting. Maybe it will be donefor New Year's." "Now do you want to play chess?"
"I'd rather play with you." "No. Let's play chess." "And afterward we'll play?" "Yes."
"All right." 

I got out the chess­board and arranged the pieces. It was still snowing hard outside.
One time in the night I woke up and knew that Catherine was awake too. The moon was shiningin the window and made shadows on the bed from the bars on the window­ panes.
"Are you awake, sweetheart?" "Yes. Can't you sleep?"
"I just woke up thinkingabout how I was nearly crazy when I first met you. Do you remember?"
"You were just a little crazy."
"I'm never that way any more. I'm grand now. You say grand so sweetly. Say grand."
"Grand."
"Oh, you're sweet. And I'm not crazy now. I'mjust very, very, very happy." "Go on to sleep," I said.
"All right. Let's go to sleep at exactly the same moment." "All right."
But we did not. I was awake for quite along time thinkingabout things and watching Catherine sleeping, the moonlight on her face. Then I went to sleep, too.

39

By the middle of January I had a beard and the winter had settled into bright cold days and hard cold nights. We could walk on the roads again. The snow was packed hard and smooth by the hay­sleds and wood­sledges and the logs that were hauleddown the mountain. The snow lay over all the country, down almost to Montreux. The mountains on the other side of the lake were all white and the plain of the Rhone Valley was covered. We took long walks on the other side of the mountain to the Bains de l'Alliaz. Catherine wore hobnailed boots and a cape and carrieda stick with a sharp steel point. She did not look big with the cape and we would not walk too fast but stopped and sat on logs by the roadside to rest when she was tired.

There was an inn in the trees at the Bains del'Alliaz where the woodcutters stopped to drink,and we sat inside warmed by the stove and drank hot red wine with spices and lemon in it. They calledit gluhwein and it was a good thing to warm you and to celebrate with. The inn was dark and smoky inside and afterward when you went out the cold air came sharply into yourlungs andnumbed theedge of yournose as youinhaled. Welooked back at the inn with light coming from the windows and the woodcutters' horses stamping and jerking their heads outsideto keep warm. There was frost on the hairs of their muzzles and their breathing made plumes of frost in the air. Going up the road toward home the road was smooth and slippery for a while andtheice orange from the horses untilthe wood­hauling track turned off. Then the road was clean­packed snow and ledthrough the woods, and twice coming home in the evening, we saw foxes. 

It was a fine country and every time that we went out it was fun.
"You have a splendid beard now," Catherine said. "It looks just like the woodcutters'. Did you see the man with the tiny gold earrings?"
"He's a chamois hunter," I said. "They wear them because they say it makes them hear better."
"Really? I don't believeit. I think they wear them to show they are chamois hunters. Are there chamois nearhere?"
"Yes, beyond the Dent de Jaman." "It was fun seeing the fox."
"When he sleeps he wraps that tail around him to keep warm." "It must be a lovely feeling."
"I always wanted to have a taillike that. Wouldn't it be funif we hadbrushes like a fox?"
"It might be very difficult dressing."
"We'd have clothes made, orlive in a country where it wouldn't make any difference."
"We live in a country where nothing makes any difference. Isn't it grand howwe never see any one? You don't want to see people do you, darling?"
"No."
"Should we sit here just a minute? I'm a little bit tired."
We sat close together on the logs. Ahead theroad went down through the forest. "She won't come between us, will she? Thelittle brat."

"No. We won't let her." "How are we for money?"
"We have plenty. They honored the last sight draft."
"Won't your family try and get hold of you now they know you're in Switzerland?" "Probably. I'll write them something."
"Haven't you written them?" "No. Only the sight draft." "Thank God I'mnot your family." "I'll sendthem a cable."
"Don't you care anything about them?"
"I did, but we quarrelled so much it wore itself out."
"I think I'd like them. I'd probably like them very much."
"Let's not talk about them or I'll start to worry about them." After a while I said, "Let's go onif you're rested."
"I'm rested."
We went on down the road. It was dark now and the snow squeaked under our boots. The night was dry and cold and very clear.
"I love your beard," Catherine said. "It's a great success. It looks so stiff and fierce and it's very soft and a great pleasure."
"Do you like it betterthan without?"
"I think so. You know, darling, I'm not going to cut my hair now until after young Catherine's born. I look too big and matronly now. But after she's born and I'm thin again I'm going to cut it andthen I'll be a fine new and different girlfor you. We'll go togetherand get it cut, or I'llgo alone and come and surprise you." 

I did not say anything.
"You won't say I can't, will you?" "No. I think it would beexciting."
"Oh, you're so sweet. And maybe I'd look lovely, darling, and be so thin and exciting to you and you'll fallin love with me all over again."
"Hell," I said,"Ilove you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?" "Yes. I want to ruin you."
"Good," I said, "that's what I want too."

40

We had a fine life.We lived through the months of January and February and the winter was very fine and we were very happy. There had been short thaws when the wind blew warm and the snow softened and the airfelt like spring, but always the clear hard cold had come again andthe winter had returned. In March came the first break in the winter. In the night it started raining. Itrained on all morning and turned the snow to slush and made the mountain­sidedismal. There were clouds over thelakeand over the valley. It was raining high up the mountain. Catherine wore heavy overshoes and I wore Mr. Guttingen's rubber­boots and we walked to the station underan umbrella, through the slushand the running water that was washing the ice of the roads bare, to stop at the pub before lunch for a vermouth. Outside we could hear the rain.

"Do you think we ought to move intotown?" "What do you think?" Catherine asked.
"If the winteris over and the rain keeps up it won't be fun up here. How long is it before young Catherine?"
"About a month. Perhaps a little more." "We might go down and stay in Montreux."
"Why don't we go to Lausanne? That's where the hospitalis." "All right. But I thought maybe that was too big a town."
"We can be as much alone in a bigger town and Lausanne might be nice." "When should we go?"
"I don't care. Whenever you want, darling. I don't want toleave here if you don't want."
"Let's see how the weather turns out."

It rained for threedays. The snow was all gone now on the mountain­side below the station. The road was a torrent of muddy snow­water. It was too wet and slushy to go out. On the morning of the third day of rain we decided to go down into town.
"That is allright, Mr. Henry,"Guttingen said. "You do not have togive me any notice. I did not think you would want to stay now the bad weatheris come."
"We have tobe near the hospitalanyway on account of Madame," I said.
"I understand," he said. "Will you come back some time and stay, with the little one?" 

"Yes, if you would have room."
"In the spring when it is nice you could come and enjoy it.We could put thelittle one andthe nurse in the big room that is closed now and you and Madame could have your same room looking out over the lake."
"I'll write about coming," I said. We packedand left on the train that went down after lunch. Mr. and Mrs. Guttingen came down to the station with us and he hauled our baggage down on a sled through the slush. They stoodbeside the station in therain waving good­by.
"They were very sweet," Catherine said. "They were fineto us."

We took the train to Lausanne from Montreux. Looking out the window toward where we had lived you could not see the mountains for the clouds. The train stopped in Vevey, then went on, passing the lake on one sideand on the other the wet brown fields and thebare woods and the wet houses. Wecame into Lausanne and went into a medium­sized hotel to stay. It was still rainingas we drove through the streets and into the carriage entrance ofthe hotel. The conciergewith brass keys on his lapels, the elevator, the carpets on the floors, and the white washbowls with shining fixtures, the brass bed and the big comfortable bedroom all seemed very great luxury after the Guttingens. 

The windows of the room lookedout on a wet garden with a wall topped by aniron fence. Across the street, which sloped steeply, was anotherhotel with a similar wall and garden. I looked out at the rain falling in thefountain of the garden.
Catherine turned on all thelights and commenced unpacking. I ordered a whiskey and sodaand lay on the bed and read the papers I had bought at the station. It was March, 1918,and the German offensive had startedin France. I drank the whiskey and soda andread while Catherine unpacked andmoved around the room.

"You know what I have to get, darling," she said. "What?"
"Baby clothes.There aren't many people reach my time without baby things." "You can buy them."
"I know. That's what I'll do to­morrow. I'll find out what is necessary." "You ought to know. You were a nurse."
"But so few of the soldiers had babies in the hospitals." "I did."
She hit me with the pillow and spilled the whiskey and soda. "I'll order you another," she said. "I'm sorry I spilledit." "There wasn't much left. Come on over to thebed."
"No. I have to try and make this room look like something." "Like what?"
"Like our home."
"Hang outthe Allied flags." "Oh shut up."
"Say it again." "Shut up."
"You say it so cautiously," I said. "As though you didn't want to offend any one." "I don't."
"Then come over to the bed." 

"All right." She came and sat on the bed. "I know I'm no fun for you, darling. I'm like a big flour­barrel."
"No you're not. You're beautiful and you're sweet." "I'mjust something very ungainly that you'vemarried." "No you're not. You're more beautiful all the time." "But I will be thin again, darling."
"You're thin now." "You've been drinking." "Just whiskey and soda."
"There's another one coming," she said. "Andthen should we order dinnerup here?"
"That will be good."
"Then we won't go out, will we?We'll just stay in to­night." "And play," I said.
"I'll drink some wine," Catherine said. "It won't hurt me. Maybe we can get some of our old white capri."
"I know we can," I said. "They'll have Italian wines at a hotel this size."
The waiter knocked at the door. He brought the whiskey in a glass with ice and beside the glass on a tray a small bottle of soda.
"Thank you," I said. "Put it down there. Will you please have dinner for two brought up here and two bottles of dry white capriin ice."
"Do you wish to commence your dinner with soup?" "Do you want soup, Cat?"
"Please."
"Bring soup for one."

"Thank you, sir." He went out and shut the door. I went back to the papers and the war in the papers andpoured the soda slowly over the ice into the whiskey. I would have to tell them not to putice in the whiskey. Let them bring the ice separately. That way you could tell how muchwhiskey there was and itwould not suddenly be too thin from the soda. I would get abottle of whiskey and have them bringice and soda. That was the sensible way. Good whiskey was very pleasant. It was one of the pleasant parts of life.

"What are you thinking, darling?" "About whiskey."
"What about whiskey?" "About how nice it is."
Catherine made a face. "Allright," she said.
We stayed at that hotel three weeks. It was not bad; the diningroomwas usually empty and very often we ate in our room at night.We walkedin the town and took the cogwheel railway down to Ouchy and walkedbeside thelake. The weather became quite warm and it was like spring. We wished we were back in the mountains but the spring weather lasted only a few days and then the cold rawness of the breaking­upof winter came again.

Catherinebought the things sheneeded forthe baby, up in thetown. I went to a gymnasium in the arcade to box for exercise. I usually went up there in the morning while Catherine stayed late in bed. On the days of false springit was very nice, after boxing and taking a shower, to walk along the streets smelling the spring in the airand stop at a café 

to sit and watch the people and read the paper and drink a vermouth; then godown to the hotel andhave lunch with Catherine. Theprofessor at the boxing gymnasiumwore mustaches and was very precise and jerky and went all topieces if you started after him. But it was pleasantin thegym. There was good air and light and I worked quite hard, skipping rope, shadowboxing, doing abdominal exercises lyingon the floorin a patch of sunlight that came through the open window, and occasionally scaringthe professor when we boxed. I could not shadow­box in front of the narrow long mirror atfirst because it looked so strangeto seea manwith a beard boxing. But finally I just thought it was funny. I wanted to take off thebeard as soon as I started boxing but Catherine did not want me to.

Sometimes Catherineand I went for rides out in the country in a carriage. It was nice to ride when the days were pleasant andwe found two good places where we could ride out to eat. Catherine could not walk very far now and Iloved to ride out along the country roads withher. When there was a good day we had a splendid time and we never had a bad time.We knew the baby was very closenow and it gave us botha feeling as though something were hurrying us and we could not loseany time together.

41

One morning I awoke about three o'clock hearing Catherine stirring in the bed. "Are you allright, Cat?"
"I've been having some pains, darling." "Regularly?"
"No, not very."
"If you have them at allregularly we'll go to the hospital."
I was very sleepy and went back to sleep. A little while later I woke again. "Maybe you'd better call up the doctor," Catherine said. "I think maybe this is it." I went to the phone and called the doctor. "How often are thepains coming?"he asked.

"How often are they coming, Cat?"
"I should think every quarterof an hour."
"You should go to the hospital, then," thedoctor said. "I willdress and gothere right away myself."

I hung up and called the garage near the station to send up ataxi. No one answered the phone for a long time. Then I finally got a man who promised to send upa taxi at once. Catherine was dressing. Her bag was allpacked with the things she would need at the hospital andthe baby things. Outsidein the hall I rang for the elevator. There was no answer. I went downstairs. There was no one downstairs except the night­ watchman. I brought the elevator up myself, put Catherine's bagin it, she stepped in and we went down. The night­watchman opened the door forus and we sat outside on the stone slabs beside the stairs down to the driveway and waited forthe taxi. Thenight was clear andthe stars were out. Catherine was very excited. 

"I'm so gladit's started," she said. "Now in alittle while it will be all over." "You're a good brave girl."
"I'm not afraid. I wish the taxi would come, though."
We heard it coming up the street and saw its headlights. It turnedinto the driveway and I helped Catherinein and the driver put the bag up in front.
"Drive to the hospital," I said.

We went out of the driveway and started up the hill.
At the hospital we went in and I carriedthe bag. There was a woman at the desk whowrote down Catherine's name, age, address, relatives and religion, in a book. She said she had no religion and the woman drewa line in the space after that word. She gave her name as CatherineHenry.

"I will take you up to your room," she said. We went up in an elevator. The woman stopped it and we steppedout and followed her down a hall. Catherineheld tight to my arm.
"This is the room," the woman said. "Will youplease undress and get into bed? Here is a night­gown for you to wear."
"I have a night­gown," Catherine said.
"It is better for you to wear this night­gown," the woman said. I went outside and sat on a chairin the hallway.
"You can come in now," the woman said from the doorway. Catherine was lying in the narrow bed wearing a plain, square­cut night­gown that looked as though it were made of rough sheeting. She smiled at me.
"I'm having fine pains now," she said. The womanwas holding her wrist and timing the pains witha watch.
"That was a big one," Catherine said. I saw it on her face. "Where's the doctor?" I asked the woman.
"He's lying down sleeping. He will be here when he is needed."
"I must do something for Madame, now," the nurse said. "Would you please step out again?"
I went out into the hall. It was a bare hall with two windows and closed doors all down the corridor. It smelled of hospital. I sat on the chair and lookedat thefloor and prayed for Catherine.

"You can come in," the nurse said. I went in. "Hello,darling," Catherine said.
"How is it?"
"They are coming quite often now." Her face drew up. Then she smiled.
"That was a real one. Do you want to put your hand on my back again, nurse?" "If it helps you," the nurse said.
"You go away, darling," Catherine said. "Goout and get something to eat. I may do this for along time the nurse says."
"The firstlaboris usually protracted," the nurse said.
"Please go out andget somethingto eat," Catherine said. "I'm fine, really." "I'll stay awhile," I said.
The pains came quite regularly, then slackened off. Catherine was very excited. When the pains were bad she called them good ones. When they started to falloff she was disappointed and ashamed. 

"You go out, darling," she said. "I think you are just making me self­conscious." Her face tied up. "There. That was better. I so want to be a good wife and have this child without any foolishness. Please go and get some breakfast, darling, and then come back. I won't miss you. Nurse is splendid to me."
"You have plenty of time for breakfast," the nurse said. "I'll go then. Good­by, sweet."
"Good­by," Catherine said, "and have a finebreakfast for me too." "Where can I getbreakfast?"I asked the nurse.
"There's a café down the street at the square," she said. "It should be open now." Outsideit was gettinglight. I walkeddown the empty street to the café. There was
a light in the window. I went in and stood at the zinc barand an old man served me a glass of white wine and a brioche. The brioche was yesterday's. I dipped it in the wine and then drank a glass of coffee.

"What do you do at this hour?"the old man asked. "My wife is in labor at the hospital."
"So. I wish you good luck." "Give me another glass of wine."
He poured it from the bottle sloppingit over alittle so some ran down on the zinc. I drank this glass, paid and went out.Outside along the street were the refuse cans from the houses waiting for the collector. A dog was nosing atone of the cans.

"What do you want?" I asked and looked in the can to see if there was anything I could pull out for him; there was nothingon top but coffee­grounds, dust and some dead flowers.
"There isn't anything, dog," I said. The dog crossed the street. I went up the stairs in the hospital to the floor Catherine was on and down the hall toherroom. I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I opened the door; the roomwas empty, except for Catherine's bag on a chair and her dressing­gown hanging on a hook on the wall. I went out anddown the hall, looking for somebody. I found a nurse.
"Where is Madame Henry?"
"A lady has just gone to the delivery room." "Where is it?"
"I will show you."
She took me down to the end of the hall. Thedoor ofthe roomwas partly open. I could see Catherinelying on a table, covered by a sheet. The nurse was on one sideand the doctor stood on the other side of the table beside some cylinders. The doctor held a rubber mask attached to a tube in one hand.
"I will give you a gown and you can go in," the nurse said. "Come in here, please." She put a whitegown on me and pinnedit at the neck in back with a safety pin. "Now you can go in," she said. I went into theroom.
"Hello, darling," Catherine saidin a strained voice. "I'm not doing much." "You are Mr. Henry?"the doctor asked.
"Yes. How is everything going, doctor?"
"Things are going very well," the doctor said. "We came in here where it is easy to give gas for the pains." 

"I want it now," Catherine said. The doctor placed the rubber mask over her face and turned a dial and I watched Catherine breathing deeply and rapidly. Then she pushed the mask away. The doctor shut off the petcock.
"That wasn't a very big one. I hada very big one a while ago. The doctor made me go clear out, didn't you, doctor?" Her voice was strange. It rose on the word doctor.
The doctor smiled.
"I want it again," Catherine said. She held therubber tight to herface and breathed fast. I heard her moaninga little. Then she pulledthe mask away and smiled.
"That was a big one," she said. "That was a very big one. Don't you worry, darling. You go away. Go haveanother breakfast."
"I'll stay," I said.
We had gone to the hospital about three o'clock in the morning. At noon Catherine was stillin the delivery room. The pains had slackened again. Shelooked very tiredand worn now but she was still cheerful.
"I'm not any good,darling," she said. "I'm so sorry. I thought I would doit very easily. Now­­there's one­­" she reachedout her hand for the mask and held it over her face. The doctor moved the dial and watched her. Ina little while it was over.
"It wasn't much," Catherine said. She smiled."I'm a fool about the gas. It's wonderful."
"We'll get some for the home," I said.
"There one comes," Catherine said quickly. The doctor turned the dial and looked at his watch.
"What is the interval now?" I asked. "About a minute."
"Don't you want lunch?"
"I will have somethingpretty soon,"he said.
"You must have something to eat,doctor," Catherine said. "I'm so sorry I go on so long. Couldn't my husband give me the gas?"
"If you wish," the doctor said. "You turn it to the numeral two."
"I see," I said.There was amarker on a dial that turned with a handle.
"I want it now," Catherine said. She held themask tight to her face. I turned the dial to number two and when Catherine put down the mask I turned it off. It was very good of the doctor tolet me do something.
"Did you do it, darling?" Catherineasked. She stroked my wrist. "Sure."
"You're so lovely." She was a little drunk fromthe gas.
"I will eat from a tray in the next room," the doctor said. "You can call me any moment."While the time passed I watched him eat, then, after a while, I saw that he was lying down and smoking a cigarette. Catherine was getting very tired.
"Do you think I'll ever have this baby?" sheasked. "Yes, of course you will."
"I try as hard as I can. I pushdown but it goes away. There it comes. Give it to me." At two o'clock I went out and had lunch. There were a fewmen in the café sitting
with coffee and glasses of kirsch or marc on the tables. I sat down at a table. "Can I eat?" I asked the waiter.
"It is past time forlunch." 

"Isn't there anything for allhours?" "You can have choucroute." "Give me choucroute and beer." "A demi or a bock?"
"A light demi."
The waiter brought a dish of sauerkraut with a slice of ham over the top and a sausage buriedin the hot wine­soaked cabbage. I ateit and drank the beer. I was very hungry. I watched the people at the tables in the café. At one table they were playing cards. Two men at the table next me were talkingand smoking. The café was full of smoke. The zinc bar, where I had breakfasted, had three people behindit now; the old man, a plump woman in a black dress who sat behind a counter and kept track of everything served to the tables, and aboy in an apron. I wonderedhowmany children the woman had and what it had been like.

When I was through with the choucroute I went back to the hospital. The street was all clean now. There were no refuse cans out.The day was cloudy but the sun was trying to come through.
I rode upstairs in the elevator, stepped out and went down the hail to Catherine's room, where I hadleft my white gown. I put it on and pinned it in back atthe neck. I looked in the glass and sawmyself lookinglike a fake doctor with a beard. I went down the hailto the delivery room. The door was closed and Iknocked. No one answered so I turned the handle and went in. Thedoctor sat by Catherine. The nurse was doing something at the other end of the room.

"Here is your husband," the doctor said.
"Oh, darling, I have the most wonderful doctor," Catherine said in a very strange voice. "He's been telling me themost wonderful story and when the pain came too badly he put me all the way out. He's wonderful. You're wonderful, doctor."
"You're drunk," I said.
"I know it," Catherine said. "But you shouldn't say it." Then "Give it to me. Give it to me." She clutched hold of the mask and breathed short anddeep, pantingly, makingthe respirator click. Then she gavea long sigh and the doctor reached with his lefthand and lifted away the mask.
"That was a very big one," Catherine said. Her voice was very strange. "I'm not going to die now, darling. I'm past where I was going to die. Aren't you glad?"
"Don't you get in that place again."
"I won't. I'm not afraid of it though. I won't die, darling."
"You will not do any such foolishness," the doctor said. "You would not die and leave yourhusband."
"Oh, no. I won't die. I wouldn't die. It's silly to die. There it comes. Give it to me." After a while the doctor said, "You willgo out, Mr. Henry, for a few moments and I
will make an examination."
"He wants to see how I am doing," Catherine said. "You can come back afterward, darling, can't he, doctor?"
"Yes," said the doctor. "I will send word when he can come back."
I went out the door and down the hall to theroomwhere Catherine was to be after the baby came. I sat in a chair there and looked at the room. I had thepaperin my coat that I had bought when I went out for lunch and I read it. It was beginning to be dark outside and I turned the light on to read. Aftera while I stopped reading and turned off the light and watched it get dark outside. I wondered why the doctordid not send for me. Maybe it was better I was away. He probably wantedme away for a while. I lookedat my watch. If he did not send for me in ten minutes I would go down anyway.
Poor, poor dear Cat. And this was the price you paid for sleeping together. This was the end of the trap. This was what people got forloving each other. Thank God for gas, anyway. What must it havebeenlike before there were anaesthetics? Onceit started, they were in the mill­race. Catherine had a good time in the time of pregnancy. It wasn't bad. She was hardly ever sick. She was not awfully uncomfortable until toward the last. So now they got herin the end. 

You never got away with anything. Getaway hell! It would have been the same if we had been married fifty times. And what if she should die? She won't die. People don't diein childbirth nowadays. That was what all husbands thought. Yes, but what if she should die? Shewon't die. She's just having a bad time. The initiallaboris usually protracted. She's only having a bad time. Afterward we'd say what a bad time and Catherine would say it wasn't really so bad. 

But what if she should die? She can't die. Yes, but what if she should die? She can't, I tell you. Don't be a fool. It's just a bad time. It's just nature givingher hell. It's only the first labor, which is almost always protracted. Yes, but what if she should die? She can't die. Why would she die? What reasonis there for her todie?There's just a child that has to beborn, the by­product of good nights in Milan. It makes trouble and is born and then youlook afterit and get fond of it maybe. But what if she should die? She won't die. But what if she should die? She won't. She's all right. But what if she should die? She can't die. But what if she should die? Hey, what about that? Whatif she should die?
The doctor came into the room. "How does it go, doctor?"

"It doesn't go," he said. "What do you mean?"
"Just that. I made an examination­­" He detailed the result of the examination. "Since then I've waited to see. But it doesn't go."
"What do you advise?"
"There are two things. Either a high forceps delivery which can tearand be quite dangerous besides beingpossibly bad forthechild, and a Caesarean."
"What is the danger of a Caesarean?" What if she should die! "It should be no greater than the danger ofanordinary delivery." "Would you do it yourself?"
"Yes. I would need possibly an hour toget things ready and to get the people I would need. Perhaps a little less."
"What do you think?"
"I would advise a Caesarean operation. If it were my wife I would do a Caesarean." "What are the after effects?"
"There are none. There is only the scar." "What about infection?"
"The dangeris not so great as in a high forceps delivery." "What if you just went on anddid nothing?"
"You would have to do something eventually. Mrs. Henry is already losing much of her strength.The sooner we operatenow the safer." 

"Operate as soon as you can,"I said. "I will go and give the instructions."
I went into the delivery room. The nurse was with Catherine who lay on the table, big under the sheet, looking very pale and tired.
"Did you tell him he could do it?" she asked. "Yes."
"Isn't that grand. Now it will be all overin an hour. I'm almost done, darling. I'm going all to pieces. Please give me that. It doesn't work. Oh, it doesn't work!"
"Breathe deeply."
"I am. Oh, it doesn't work any more. It doesn'twork!" "Get another cylinder," I said to the nurse.
"That is a new cylinder."
"I'mjust a fool, darling," Catherine said. "But it doesn't work any more." She began to cry. "Oh, I wanted so to have this baby and not make trouble, and now I'm all done and all gone topieces and it doesn't work. Oh, darling, it doesn't work at all. I don't care if I die if it will only stop. Oh, please, darling, please make it stop. There it comes. Oh Oh Oh!" She breathed sobbingly in the mask.

"It doesn't work. It doesn't work. It doesn't work. Don't mind me, darling. Please don't cry. Don't mind me. I'mjust gone all to pieces. You poor sweet. Ilove you so and I'll be goodagain. I'll be good this time. Can't they give me something? If they could only give me something."
"I'll make it work. I'll turn it all the way." "Give it to me now."
I turned the dialall the way and as she breathed hard and deep her hand relaxed on the mask. I shut off the gas and lifted the mask. She came back from a long way away.
"That was lovely, darling. Oh, you're sogood to me."
"You be brave, because I can't do that all the time. It might kill you."
"I'm not brave any more, darling. I'm all broken. They've broken me. I know it now." "Everybody is that way."
"But it's awful. They just keep it up till they break you." "In an hourit will be over."
"Isn't that lovely? Darling, I won't die, will I?" "No. I promise you won't."
"Because I don't want to die andleave you, but I get so tiredof it and I feel I'm going to die."
"Nonsense. Everybody feels that." "Sometimes I know I'm going to die." "You won't. You can't."
"But what if I should?" "I won't let you."
"Give it to me quick. Give it to me!"
Then afterward, "I won't die. I won't let myself die." "Of course you won't."
"You'll stay with me?" "Not to watch it." "No, just to be there." 

"Sure. I'llbe there all the time."
"You're so good to me. There, give it to me. Give me some more. It's not working!" I turned the dialto three and then four. I wished the doctor would come back. I was
afraid ofthe numbers above two.

Finally a new doctor came in with two nurses and they lifted Catherine onto a wheeled stretcher and we started down the hall. The stretcher went rapidly dOwn the hall and into the elevator where every one had to crowd against the wall to make room; then up, thenan open door and out of the elevatorand down the hall on rubber wheels to the operating room. I did not recognize the doctorwith his cap and mask on. There was another doctor and more nurses.

"They've got to give me something," Catherine said. "They've got to give me something. Oh please, doctor, give me enough to do some good!"
One of the doctors puta mask over her face and I looked through the door and saw the bright small amphitheatre of theoperatingroom.

"You can go in the otherdoorand sit up there," a nurse said to me. There were benches behind arail that lookeddown on the white table and the lights. I looked at Catherine. The mask was over her face and she was quiet now. They wheeled the stretcher forward. I turned away and walkeddown the hall. Two nurses were hurrying toward the entrance to the gallery.
"It's a Caesarean," one said. "They're goingto do a Caesarean."

The other onelaughed, "We're just in time. Aren't we lucky?" They went in the door that led to the gallery.
Another nurse came along. She was hurrying too. "You go rightin there. Go right in," shesaid.

"I'm staying outside."
She hurried in. I walked up and down the hall. I was afraid to go in. I looked out the window. It was dark but in the light from the window I could seeit was raining. I went into a room at the far end of the hall and lookedat the labels on bottles in a glass case. Then I came out and stoodin the empty hall and watched the doorof theoperating room.
A doctor came out followed by a nurse. He held somethingin his two hands that looked like a freshly skinned rabbit and hurried across the corridor with it andin through another door. I went down to the door he hadgoneintoand found them in the room doing things to anew­born child. The doctor held him up for me to see. He held him by the heels and slapped him.

"Is he all right?"
"He's magnificent. He'll weighfive kilos."

I had no feeling for him. He did not seem to have anything to do with me. I felt no feeling of fatherhood.
"Aren't you proud of your son?" the nurse asked. They were washing him and wrapping him in something. I saw the little dark face anddark hand, but I did not see him move or hear him cry. The doctor was doing something to him again. He lookedupset.
"No," I said. "He nearly killed his mother."
"It isn't thelittle darling's fault. Didn't you want a boy?"
"No," I said. The doctor was busy with him. He held him up by the feet and slapped him. I did not wait to see it. I went outin thehail. I could go in now and see. I went in the 

door and a little way down the gallery. The nurses who were sitting atthe rail motioned for me to come down where they were. I shook my head. I could see enough where I was.
I thought Catherine was dead. Shelooked dead. Her face was gray, the part ofit that I could see. Down below, under thelight, the doctor was sewing up the great long, forcep­spread, thickedged, wound. Another doctorin a mask gave the anaesthetic. Two nurses in masks handed things. It looked like a drawingof the Inquisition. I knew as I watched I could have watchedit all, but I was glad I hadn't. I do not think I could have watched them cut, but I watched the wound closed into a high welted ridge with quick skilful­looking stitches like a cobbler's, and was glad. When the wound was closed I went out into the hall and walked up anddown again. After a while the doctor came out.

"How is she?"
"She is all right. Did you watch?" He looked tired.
"I saw you sew up. Theincisionlooked very long." "You thought so?"
"Yes. Will that scar flatten out?" "Oh, yes."
After a while they brought out the wheeled stretcher and took it very rapidly down the hallway to the elevator. I went along beside it. Catherine was moaning. Downstairs they put herin the bed in her room. I sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. There was a nurse in the room. I got up and stood by the bed. It was dark in the room. Catherine put out herhand. "Hello, darling," she said. Her voice was very weak and tired.
"Hello, you sweet."
"What sort of baby was it?" "Sh­­don't talk," the nurse said.
"A boy. He's long and wide and dark." "Is he all right?"
"Yes," I said."He's fine."
I saw the nurse look at me strangely.
"I'm awfully tired," Catherine said. "And I hurt like hell. Are youall right, darling?" "I'm fine. Don't talk."
"You were lovely to me. Oh, darling, I hurt dreadfully. What does he look like?" "He looks like a skinned rabbit with a puckered­up old­man's face."
"You must go out," the nurse said. "Madame Henry must not talk." "I'll be outside."
"Go andget somethingto eat."
"No. I'll be outside." I kissed Catherine. She was very gray and weak and tired. "May I speak to you?" I said to the nurse. She came out in thehall with me. I
walked alittle way down the hall.
"What's the matter with the baby?" I asked. "Didn't you know?"
"No."
"He wasn't alive." "He was dead?"
"They couldn't start him breathing. The cord was caught around his neck or something." 

"So he's dead."
"Yes. It's such a shame. He was such a fine big boy. I thought you knew." "No," I said. "You better go back in with Madame."
I sat down on the chairin front of a table where there were nurses' reports hung on clips at the side andlooked out of the window. I could see nothing but the dark and the rain falling across the light from the window. So that was it. Thebaby was dead. That was why the doctorlooked so tired. But why had they acted the way they did in the roomwith him? They supposed he would come aroundand start breathing probably. I had no religion but I knew he ought to have been baptized. But what if he never breathed at all. He hadn't. He had never been alive. Except in Catherine. I'd felt him kick there often enough. But I hadn't for a week. 

Maybe he was choked all the time. Poor little kid. I wished the hell I'd been choked like that. No I didn't. Still there would not beallthis dying to go through. Now Catherine would die. That was what you did. You died. You did not know what it was about. You never had time to learn. They threw youin and told you therules and the first time they caught you off base they killed you. Orthey killed you gratuitously like Aymo. Or gave you the syphilis like Rinaldi. But they killed you in theend. You could count on that. Stay around and they would killyou.

Oncein camp I put alog on topof the fire and it was full of ants. As it commenced to burn, the ants swarmed out and went first toward the centre where the fire was; then turned back and rantoward the end. When there were enough onthe end they fell offinto the fire. Some got out, their bodies burnt and flattened, and went off not knowing where they were going. But most of themwent toward the fire and then back toward the end and swarmed on the cool end and finally fell off into the fire. 

I remember thinking atthe time that it was the end of the world and a splendid chance tobe a messiah andlift the log off the fire and throw it out where the ants could get off onto the ground. But I did not do anything but throw a tin cup of water onthelog, so that I would have the cup empty to put whiskey in before I added water toit. I think the cup of water on the burning log only steamed the ants.

So now I sat outin the hall and waited to hear how Catherine was. The nurse did not come out, so after a while I went to the door and opened it very softly and lookedin. I could not see at first because there was a bright light in the hall and it was dark in the room. Then I saw the nurse sitting by the bed and Catherine's headon a pillow, and she was all flat under the sheet. Thenurse put her finger to herlips, then stood up and came to the door.

"How is she?" I asked.
"She's all right," the nurse said. "You should go and have your supper and then come back if you wish."
I went down the hall and then down the stairs and out the door ofthe hospital and down the dark street in the rain to the café.It was brightly lightedinsideand there were many people at the tables. I did not see a place to sit, and a waiter came up to me and took my wet coat and hat and showed me a place at a table across from an elderly man whowas drinking beer and reading theevening paper. I satdown and asked the waiter what the plat du jour was.

"Veal stew­­but it is finished." "What can I have to eat?"
"Ham and eggs, eggs with cheese, or choucroute." 

"I had choucroute this noon," I said.
"That's true," he said. "That's true. You ate choucroute this noon." He was a middle­ aged man with a bald topto his head and his hair slicked overit. Hehad a kind face.
"What do you want? Ham and eggs or eggs with cheese?" "Ham and eggs," I said, "and beer."
"A demi­blonde?" "Yes," I said.
"I remembered," he said. "You took a demi­blonde this noon."

I ate the ham and eggs and drank the beer. The ham and eggs were in a round dish­­the ham underneath and the eggs on top. It was very hot and at the first mouthful I had to take a drink of beer to cool my mouth. I was hungry and Iasked the waiter for another order. I drank severalglasses of beer. I was not thinking at allbut read the paper of the man opposite me. It was about the break through on the British front. When he realized I was reading the back ofhis paper he folded it over. I thought of asking the waiter for a paper, but I could not concentrate. It was hot in the café andthe air was bad. Many of the people at the tables knew one another. There were severalcard games going on. The waiters were busy bringing drinks from the bar to the tables. Two men came in and could find noplace to sit. 

They stoodopposite the table where I was. I ordered another beer. I was not ready toleave yet. It was too soon to go back to the hospital. I tried not to think and to be perfectly calm. Themen stood around but noone was leaving, so they went out. Idrank another beer. There was quite a pile of saucers now on the table in front of me. The man opposite me had taken off his spectacles, put them away in a case, folded his paper and put it in his pocket and now sat holdinghisliqueur glass and looking out at theroom. Suddenly I knew I had to get back. I called the waiter, paid the reckoning, got into my coat, put on my hat and started out the door. I walked through the rain up to the hospital.

Upstairs I met the nurse coming down the hall.
"I just called you at the hotel," she said. Something droppedinside me. "What is wrong?"
"Mrs. Henry has had a hemorrhage." "Can I go in?"
"No, not yet. The doctoris with her." "Is it dangerous?"

"It is very dangerous."Thenurse went into the room and shut the door. I sat outside in the hail. Everything was gone inside of me. I did not think. I could not think. I knew she was going todie and I prayed that she would not. Don't let her die. Oh, God, please don't let her die. I'll do anything for youif you won't let her die. Please, please, please, dear God, don't lether die. DearGod, don't let herdie. Please, please, please don't let her die. God please make her not die. I'll do anythingyou say if you don't let her die. You took the baby butdon't let her die. That was all right but don't let her die. Please, please, dearGod, don't let herdie.

The nurse opened the door and motioned with her finger for me to come. I followed herinto the room. Catherine did not look up when I came in. I went over to the side of the bed. The doctor was standing by the bed on the opposite side. Catherinelooked at me and smiled. I bent down over the bed and started to cry.
"Poor darling," Catherine said very softly. She looked gray. 

"You're all right, Cat," I said. "You're going tobe all right." "I'm going todie," she said; then waited and said, "I hate it." I took her hand.
"Don't touch me," she said. I let go of herhand. She smiled. "Poor darling. You touch me all you want."
"You'll be allright, Cat. I know you'll be all right."
"I meant to write you a letterto have if anything happened, but I didn't do it." "Do you want me to get a priest or any one to come and see you?"
"Just you," she said. Then alittle later, "I'm not afraid. I just hate it." "You must not talk so much," the doctor said.
"All right," Catherine said.
"Do you want me to do anything, Cat? Can Iget you anything?"
Catherine smiled, "No." Then alittle later, "You won't do our things with another girl, or say the same things, will you?"
"Never."

"I want you to have girls, though." "I don't want them."
"You are talking too much," the doctorsaid. "Mr. Henry must go out. He can come back again later. You are not going to die. You must not be silly."
"All right," Catherine said. "I'll come and stay with you nights," she said. It was very hard for her to talk.
"Please go out of the room," the doctor said. "You cannot talk." Catherine winked at me, her face gray. "I'll beright outside," I said.
"Don't worry, darling," Catherine said. "I'm not a bit afraid. It's just a dirty trick." "You dear, brave sweet."
I waited outside in the hall. I waited along time. Thenurse came to the doorand came over tome. "I'm afraid Mrs. Henry is very ill," she said. "I'm afraid forher."
"Is she dead?"
"No, but she is unconscious."

It seems she had one hemorrhage after another. They couldn't stop it. I went into the room and stayed with Catherine until shedied. She was unconscious all the time, and it did not take her very long to die.
Outside the room, in the hall, I spoke to the doctor, "Is there anything I cando to­ night?"
"No. There is nothing to do. Can I take you toyour hotel?" "No, thank you. I am going to stay here a while."
"I know there is nothing to say. I cannot tell you­­" "No," I said. "There's nothing to say."
"Good­night,"he said."I cannot take you to your hotel?" "No, thank you."
"It was the only thingto do," he said. "The operation proved­­" "I do not want to talk about it," I said.
"I would like totake you to your hotel." "No, thank you."
He went down the hall. I went to the door of the room. "You can't come in now," one of the nurses said. 

"Yes I can," I said. "You can't come in yet."
"You get out," I said. "The other one too."
But after I had got them out and shut the doorand turned off the light it wasn't any good. It was like saying good­by to a statue. After a while I went out and left thehospital and walked back to the hotelin the rain.

THE END