A farewell to arms
to my neck, Tenente. Are you badly hit?”
“In the leg. 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 a great many of us lay on the ground in the dark. They
carried wounded in and brought them out. I could see the light come out
from the dressing station when the curtain opened and they brought some
one in or out. The dead were off to one side. The doctors 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 the night was getting cold. Stretcher-bearers came
in all the time, put their stretchers down, unloaded them and went away.
As soon as I got to the dressing 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 shoulder had 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 and they had two men on each ambulance. One
of their drivers came over to me, brought by Gordini who looked very
white and sick. The Britisher leaned over.
“Are you hit badly?” he asked. He was a tall man and wore steel-rimmed
spectacles.
“In the legs.”
“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 rotten luck. Would you like us to take the cars?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
“We’d take quite good 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 of our units.”
“It would be fine if 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 broke into 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 will look after you, Tenente,” Gordini said.
“How are you, Franco?”
“I am all right.” He sat down beside me. In a moment the blanket in
front of the dressing station opened and two stretcher-bearers 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 much worse wounded than me. I’m
all right.”
“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 into
the dressing room. Inside they were operating on all the tables. The
little major looked at us furious. He recognized me and waved a forceps.
“Ça va bien?”
“Ça va.”
“I have brought him in,” the tall Englishman said in Italian. “The only
son of the American Ambassador. He can be here until you are ready to
take him. Then I will take him with my first load.” He bent over me.
“I’ll look up their adjutant to do your papers and it will all go much
faster.” He stooped to go under the doorway and went out. The major was
unhooking the forceps now, dropping them in a basin. I followed his
hands with my eyes. Now he was bandaging. Then the stretcher-bearers
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
sergeant-adjutant while he worked, “Multiple superficial wounds of the
left and right thigh and left and right knee and right foot. Profound
wounds of right knee and foot. Lacerations of the scalp (he probed—Does
that hurt?—Christ, yes!) with possible fracture of the skull. Incurred
in the line of duty. That’s what keeps you from being court-martialled
for self-inflicted wounds,” he said. “Would you like a drink of brandy?
How did you run into this thing anyway? What were you trying to do?
Commit suicide? Anti-tetanus please, and mark a cross on both legs.
Thank you. I’ll clean this up a little, wash it out, and put on a
dressing. Your blood coagulates beautifully.”
The adjutant, looking up from 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 severing tissue—“Are
you sure?”
Me—trying 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 trench-mortar shell. Now I’ll probe for some of this if you like
but it’s not necessary. I’ll paint all this and—Does that sting? Good,
that’s nothing to how it will feel later. The pain hasn’t started yet.
Bring him a glass of brandy. The shock dulls the pain; but this is all
right, you have 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 the other captains said.
“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 Anti-tetanus.” The captain waved to me. They lifted me and the
blanket-flap went across my face as we went out. Outside the
sergeant-adjutant 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 all right,” I said. “Thank you very much.” The pain that the major
had spoken about had started and all that was happening was without
interest or relation. After a while the English ambulance came up and
they put me onto a stretcher and lifted the stretcher up to the
ambulance level and shoved it in. There was another stretcher by the
side with a man on it whose nose I could see, waxy-looking, out of the
bandages. He breathed very heavily. There were stretchers lifted and
slid into the slings above. The tall English driver came around and
looked in, “I’ll take it very easily,” he said. “I hope you’ll be
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, then finally it
climbed quite fast. I felt something dripping. At first it dropped
slowly and regularly, then it pattered into a stream. I shouted to the
driver. He stopped the car and looked in through the 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 able to 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 so that 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 called back. “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 car in the night as the road climbed. At
the post on the top they took the stretcher out and put another in and
we went on.
CHAPTER X
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
the room. My orderly had cut paper into 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 you up out of bed and carried you
into the dressing room so that the beds could be made while we were
having our wounds dressed. It was not a pleasant trip to the dressing
room and I did not know until later 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 telling him where to scratch on the soles of my feet
against the itching when one of the doctors brought in Rinaldi. He came
in very fast and bent down over the bed and kissed me. I saw he wore
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’argento but
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 be the 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 something heroic either before or after.
Remember carefully.”
“I did not.”
“Didn’t you carry anybody on your back? Gordini says you carried several
people on your back but the medical major at the first post declares it
is impossible. He has to sign the proposition for the citation.”
“I didn’t carry anybody. I couldn’t move.”