The room was long with windows on the right-hand side and a door at the far end that went into the dressing room. The row of beds that mine was in faced the windows and another row, under the windows, faced the wall. If you lay on your left side you could see the dressing room 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 around the 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 behind the 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 bed to carry you into the dressing room you could look out of the window and see the new graves in the garden. A soldier sat outside the 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 an empty Austrian rifle cartridge. The doctors were very nice and seemed very capable. They were anxious to ship me to Milan where there were better X-ray facilities and where, after the operation, I could take mechano-therapy. I wanted to go to Milan too. They wanted to get us all out and back as far as possible because all the beds were needed for the offensive, when it should start.
The night before I left the field hospital Rinaldi came in to see me with the major from our mess. They said that I would go to an American hospital in Milan that had just been installed. 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 on Germany 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 her if 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, Japan is 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 wonderful little 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 coast-line, Rinaldi said. Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I don’t like Rome, I said. It is hot and full of 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 go to Rome. Let’s go to Rome to-night 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 the galleria. 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 to pay or I go to jail. Mr. Cunningham at the bank does it. I live by sight drafts. Can a 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 asked many times to be quiet. Do you go to-morrow really, Federico? He goes to the American hospital I 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 been at the front. Oh, you fine baby, what will I do while you are gone? We must go, said the major. This becomes sentimental. Listen, I have a surprise for you. Your English. You know? The English you go to see every night at their hospital? She is going to Milan too. She goes with another to be at the American hospital. They had not got nurses yet from America. I talked to-day with the head of their riparto. They have too many women here at the front. They send some back. How do you like that, baby? All right. Yes? You go to live in a big 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. Good-by. Good luck. Many things. Ciaou. Ciaou. Ciaou. Come back quickly, baby. Rinaldi kissed me. You smell of lysol. Good-by, baby. Good-by. 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 Milan and arrived forty-eight 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 a little boy to go 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 the man 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 pour it 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 freight-car outside and after a while the train gave a jerk and started.
BOOK II
We got into Milan early in the morning and they unloaded us in the freight yard. An ambulance took me to the American hospital. Riding in 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 market-place 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 stretcher down 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 whether it was better to lift me off the stretcher and go up in 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. “Take it softly.”
In the elevator we were crowded and as my legs bent the pain was very bad. “Straighten out the legs,” I said.
“We can’t, Signor Tenente. There isn’t room.” The man who said this had his arm around me and my arm was around his neck. His breath came in my face metallic with garlic and red wine.
“Be gentle,” the other man said.
“Son of a bitch who isn’t gentle!”
“Be gentle I say,” the man with my feet repeated.
I saw the doors of the elevator closed, and the grill shut and the fourth-floor button pushed by the porter. The porter looked worried. The elevator rose slowly.
“Heavy?” I asked the man with the garlic.
“Nothing,” he said. His face was sweating and he grunted. The elevator rose steadily and stopped. The man holding the feet opened the door and stepped out. We were on a balcony. There were several doors with brass knobs. The man carrying the feet pushed a button that rang a bell. We heard it inside the doors. No one came. Then the porter came up the stairs.
“Where are they?” the stretcher-bearers asked.
“I don’t know,” said the porter. “They sleep down stairs.”
“Get somebody.”
The porter rang the bell, then knocked on the door, then he opened the door and went in. When he came back there was an elderly woman wearing glasses with him. Her hair was loose and half-falling and 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 near-sightedly.
“Show them any room where they can put me.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s no patient expected. I couldn’t put you in just any room.”
“Any room will do,” I said. Then to the porter in Italian, “Find an empty room.”
“They are all empty,” said the porter. “You are the first patient.” He held his cap in his hand and looked at the elderly nurse.
“For Christ’s sweet sake take me to some room.” The pain had gone on and on with the legs bent and I could feel it going in and out of the bone. The porter went in the door, followed by the gray-haired woman, then came hurrying back. “Follow me,” he said. They carried me down a long hallway and into a room with drawn blinds. It smelled of 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. “The sheets are locked up.”
I did not speak to her. “There is money in my pocket,” I said to the porter. “In the buttoned-down pocket.” The porter took out the money. The two stretcher-bearers stood beside the bed holding their caps. “Give them five lire apiece and five lire for yourself. My papers are in the other pocket. You may give them to the nurse.”
The stretcher-bearers saluted and said thank you. “Good-by,” I said. “And many thanks.” They saluted again and went out.
“Those papers,” I said to the nurse, “describe my case and the treatment already given.”
The woman picked them up and looked at them through her glasses. There were three papers and they were folded. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I can’t read Italian. I can’t do anything without the doctor’s orders.” She commenced to cry and put the papers in her apron pocket. “Are you an American?” she asked crying.
“Yes. Please put the papers on the table by the bed.”
It was dim and cool in 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 the bed. 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 smell like 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 of water and found the bell on a cord by the bed and rang it but nobody 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, and two chairs. My legs in the dirty bandages, stuck straight out in 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 and looked and it was a nurse. She looked young and pretty.
“Good-morning,” I said.
“Good-morning,” 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’m wounded. 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.”
“Who was the woman who 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 Isonzo 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 full of trench-mortar fragments, old screws and bed-springs and things.”
She shook her head and smiled.
“If you had any foreign bodies in your legs they would set up an inflammation and you’d have fever.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll see what comes out.”
She went out of the room and came back with the old nurse of the early morning. Together they made the bed with me in it. That was new to me and an admirable proceeding.
“Who is in charge here?”
“Miss Van Campen.”
“How many nurses are there?”
“Just us two.”
“Won’t there be more?”
“Some more are coming.”
“When will they get here?”
“I don’t know. You ask a great many questions for a sick boy.”
“I’m not sick,” I said, “I’m wounded.”
They had finished making the bed and I 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 that on 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 can have breakfast.”
“I don’t want breakfast. Can I have the shutters opened please?”
The light had been dim in the room and when the shutters were opened it was bright sunlight and I looked out on a balcony and beyond were the tile roofs of houses and chimneys. I looked out over the tiled roofs and saw white 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 I lay 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 for the hospital.”
Miss Gage brought a pitcher of water and a glass. I drank three glasses and then they left me and I looked out 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 good for 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 doctor prescribes it.”
“I can’t have it until he comes?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You plan on having him 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 had done 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 him to Lake Como.”
“What does he do there? Swim?”
“No. He has a clinic there.”
“Why don’t they get another doctor?”
“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 them wrapped 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 I lay in bed and read the papers awhile, the news from the front, and the list of dead officers with their decorations and then reached down and brought 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 the bottle there between drinks, and watched it get dark outside over the roofs of the town. The swallows circled around and I watched them and the night-hawks flying above the roofs and drank the Cinzano. Miss Gage brought up a glass with some egg-nog 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 hospital is 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 her very much.”
“I’m going to bring 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 I thanked her and ate a little of the supper. Afterward it was dark outside and I could see the beams of the search-lights 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 crowing and stayed on awake until it began to be light. I was tired and once it was really light I went back to sleep again.
It was bright sunlight in the room when I woke. I thought I was back at the front and stretched out in bed. My legs hurt me and I looked down at them still in the dirty bandages, and seeing them knew where I was. I reached up for the bell-cord and pushed the button. I heard it buzz down the hall and then some one coming on rubber soles along the hall. It was Miss Gage and she looked a little older in the bright sunlight and not so pretty.
“Good-morning,” 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 the bed 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 bed in 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 will like her. She’s awfully nice.”
She shook her head. “I’m sure she’s fine. Can you move just a little to this side? That’s fine. I’ll clean you up for breakfast.” She washed me with a cloth and soap and warm water. “Hold your shoulder up,” she said. “That’s fine.”
“Can I have the barber before breakfast?”
“I’ll send the porter for him.” She went out and came back. “He’s gone for 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 happened in the town?”
“It is time of war,” 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 will not 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 good look at him. “Beware,” he said. “The razor is sharp.”
I paid him when it was over and tipped him half a lira. He returned the coins.
“I will not. I am not at the front. But I am an Italian.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“With your permission,” he said and wrapped his razors in newspaper. He went out leaving the five copper coins on the table beside the bed. I rang the bell. Miss Gage came in. “Would you ask 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 Austrian officer.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Ho ho ho,” the porter laughed. “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.”
“Ho ho ho,” I said bitterly. “How funny if he would cut my throat. Ho ho ho.”
“No, signorino. No, no. He was so frightened of an Austrian. Ho ho ho.”
“Ho ho ho,” I said. “Get out of here.”
He went out and I heard him laughing in 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. She looked 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 and leaned over and kissed me. I pulled her down and kissed her 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 well enough.”
“Yes, I am. Come on.”
“No. You’re not strong enough.”
“Yes. I am. Yes. Please.”
“You do love me?”
“I really love you. I’m crazy about you. Come on please.”
“Feel our hearts beating.”
“I don’t care about our hearts. I want you. I’m just mad about you.”
“You really love me?”
“Don’t keep on saying that. Come on. Please. Please, Catherine.”
“All right but only for a minute.”
“All right,” I said. “Shut the door.”
“You can’t. You shouldn’t.”
“Come on. Don’t talk. Please come on.”
Catherine sat in a chair by the bed. The door was open into the hall. The wildness was gone and I felt finer than I had ever felt.
She asked, “Now do you believe 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 careful in front of other people.”
“I will.”
“You’ll have to be. You’re sweet. You do love me, 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 anything more to you. I have to go now, darling, really.”
“Come back right away.”
“I’ll come when I can.”
“Good-by.”
“Good-by, sweet.”
She went out. God knows I had not wanted to fall in love with her. I had not wanted to fall in love with any one. But God knows I had and I lay on the bed in the room of the hospital in 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.”
Nothing happened until afternoon. The doctor was a thin quiet little man who seemed disturbed by the war. He took out a number of small steel splinters from my thighs with delicate and refined distaste. He used a local anæsthetic called something or other “snow,” which froze the tissue and avoided pain until the probe, the scalpel or the forceps got below the frozen portion. The anæsthetized 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 X-ray. Probing was unsatisfactory, he said.
The X-ray 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. How many had I killed? I had not killed any but I was anxious to please—and I said I had killed plenty. Miss Gage was with me and the doctor put his arm around her and said she was more beautiful than Cleopatra. Did she understand that? Cleopatra the former queen of Egypt. Yes, by God she was. We returned to the little hospital in 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 and he did. Catherine Barkley showed them to me. They were in red envelopes and she took them out of the envelopes and held them up to the light and we both looked.
“That’s your right leg,” she said, then put the plate back in the envelope. “This is your left.”
“Put them away,” I said, “and come over to the bed.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I just brought them in for a second to show you.”
She went out and I lay there. It was a hot afternoon and I was sick of lying in bed. I sent the porter for the papers, all the papers he could get.
Before he came back three doctors came into the room. I have noticed that doctors who fail in the practice of medicine have a tendency to seek one another’s company and aid in consultation. A doctor who cannot take out your appendix properly will recommend to you a doctor who will be 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 X-ray plates in their red 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 the look 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 house doctor. “Very clean and nice.”
“Um,” said the doctor with the beard. The third doctor looked 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?” The third doctor handed him one of the plates. “No. The left leg, please.”
“That is the left 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 the light. 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 re-form.”
“Certainly. It is a question of time. I could not conscientiously open a knee like that before the projectile was encysted.”
“I agree with you, doctor.”
“Six months for what?” I asked.
“Six months for the projectile to encyst before the knee can be opened safely.”
“I don’t believe it,” 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 on it.”
“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 been proposed for the silver medal of valor.”
“All my felicitations,” said the first captain. He shook my hand. “I can only say that to be on the safe side you should wait at least six months before opening such a knee. You are welcome of course to another opinion.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “I value your opinion.”
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 Varini—Tenente 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 stood by the bed. “Did you wish to see me?”
“Yes. I can’t wait six months to be operated on. My God, doctor, did you ever stay in bed six months?”
“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 synovial fluid will re-form. 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 know what 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 and see it?”
“I will ask Valentini to come.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a surgeon of the Ospedale Maggiore.”
“Good. I appreciate it 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 six months.”
The doctor spread his delicate fingers on the cap he held and smiled. “You are in such a hurry to get back to the front?”
“Why not?”
“It is very beautiful,” he said. “You are a noble young man.” He stooped over and kissed me very delicately on the forehead. “I will 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 have one.” I rang for the porter to bring glasses.
“No. No thank you. They are waiting for me.”
“Good-by,” I said.
“Good-by.”
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. You look healthy as a goat. Who’s the pretty girl? Is she your girl? I thought 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, these doctors. What have they done for you so far? Can’t that girl talk Italian? She should learn. What a lovely girl. I could teach her. I will be a patient here myself. No, but I will do all your maternity work free. Does she understand that? She will make you a fine boy. A fine blonde like she is. That’s fine. That’s all right. What a lovely girl. Ask her if she eats supper with me. No I won’t take her away 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 you better cognac than that.” He wiped his mustache.
“When do you think it can be operated on?”
“To-morrow morning. Not before. Your stomach must be emptied. You must be washed out. I will see the old lady downstairs and leave instructions. Good-by. I see you to-morrow. I’ll bring you better cognac than that. You are very comfortable here. Good-by. Until to-morrow. Get a good sleep. I’ll see you early.” He waved from the doorway, his mustaches went straight up, his brown face was smiling. There was a star in a box on his sleeve because he was a major.
That night a bat flew into the room through the open door that led onto the balcony and through which we watched the night over the roofs of the town. It was dark in our room except for the small light of the night over the town and the bat was not frightened but hunted in 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 beam move across the sky and then go off and it was dark again. A breeze came in the night and we heard the men of the anti-aircraft gun on 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. Once in 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 would all have to be gotten out of me in the morning. I went to sleep again in the morning when it was light and when I was awake I found she was gone again. She came in looking fresh and lovely and sat on the bed and the sun rose while I had the thermometer in my mouth and we smelled the dew on the roofs and then the coffee of the men at the gun on the next roof.
“I wish we could go for a walk,” Catherine said. “I’d wheel you if we had a chair.”
“How would I get into the chair?”
“We’d do it.”
“We could go out to the park and have breakfast outdoors.” I looked out 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 I imagine he’s very good.”
“Come back to bed, Catherine. Please,” I said.
“I can’t. Didn’t we have a lovely night?”
“And can you be on night duty to-night?”
“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’ll be.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“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 for the chart. Your temperature’s always normal. You’ve such a lovely temperature.”
“You’ve got a lovely everything.”
“Oh no. You have the lovely temperature. I’m awfully proud of your temperature.”
“Maybe all our children will have fine temperatures.”
“Our children will probably have beastly temperatures.”
“What do you have to do to get me ready for Valentini?”
“Not much. But quite unpleasant.”
“I wish you didn’t have to do it.”
“I don’t. I don’t want any one else to touch you. I’m silly. I get furious if they touch you.”
“Even Ferguson?”
“Especially Ferguson and Gage and the 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 fix me.”
“He should with those mustaches. And, darling, when you’re going under the ether just think about something else—not us. Because people get very blabby under an anæsthetic.”
“What should I think about?”
“Anything. Anything but us. Think about your people. Or even any other girl.”
“No.”
“Say your prayers then. That ought to create a 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 you don’t need to brag. Just start your prayers or poetry or something when they tell you to breathe deeply. You’ll be lovely that way and I’ll be so proud of you. I’m very proud of you anyway. You have such a lovely 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 Italian girl?”
“It’s you.”
“Of course it’s me. Oh I do love you and Valentini will make you a fine leg. I’m glad I don’t have to watch it.”
“And you’ll be on night duty to-night.”
“Yes. But you won’t care.”
“You wait and see.”
“There, darling. Now you’re all clean inside and out. Tell me. How many people have you ever loved?”
“Nobody.”
“Not me even?”
“Yes, you.”
“How many others really?”
“None.”
“How many have you—how do you say it?—stayed with?”
“None.”
“You’re lying to me.”
“Yes.”
“It’s all right. Keep right on lying 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 one else. 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 how much it costs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course not. Does she say she loves him? Tell me that. I want to know that.”
“Yes. If he wants her to.”
“Does he say he loves 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 outside and 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?” She looked 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 all ready?”
“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 at it 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.”
When I was awake after the operation I had not been away. You do not go away. They only choke you. It is not like dying it 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 do not feel better afterward. I saw sandbags at the end of the bed. 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 three other patients in the hospital now, a thin boy in the Red Cross from Georgia with malaria, a nice boy, also thin, from New York, with malaria and jaundice, and a fine boy who had tried to unscrew the fuse-cap from a combination shrapnel and high explosive shell for a souvenir. This was a shrapnel shell used by the Austrians in the mountains with a nose-cap which went on after the burst and exploded on contact.
Catherine Barkley was greatly liked by the nurses because she would do night duty indefinitely. She had quite a little work with the malaria people, the boy who had unscrewed the nose-cap was a friend of ours 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 the daytime and we wrote notes during the day when we were awake and sent them by Ferguson. Ferguson was a fine girl. I never learned anything about her except that she had a brother in the Fifty-Second Division and a brother in 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 never fight.”
“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 for her hand. “Don’t take hold of me,” she said. “I’m not crying. Maybe you’ll be all right you two. But watch out you don’t get her in trouble. You get her in trouble and I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t get her in 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 her into 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 the letter done? I’m going down.”
“It’s here,” I said.
“You ought to ask her not to do night duty for a while. She’s getting very tired.”
“All right. I will.”
“I want to do it but she won’t let me. The others are glad to let her have it. You might give her just a little rest.”
“All right.”
“Miss Van Campen spoke about you sleeping all the forenoons.”
“She would.”
“It would be better if 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 for it.”
“I’ll make her.”
“I don’t believe it.” She took the note and went out. I rang the bell and in a little while Miss Gage came in.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just wanted to talk to you. Don’t you think Miss Barkley ought to go off night duty for a while? She looks awfully tired. Why does she stay on so long?”
Miss Gage looked 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 never liked you.”
“No.”
“Well, I do. 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 your leg feel?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll bring some cold mineral water to pour over 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 a long journey.