A farewell to arms
“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 all right?”
“Enormously. They take nearly a thousand prisoners. It’s in the
bulletin. Didn’t you see it?”
“No.”
“I’ll bring it to you. It is 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 medal too. There was an English there. I’ll go and see
him and ask if he will recommend you. He ought to be able 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 three metres
of small intestine and better now than ever. It is one for _The Lancet_.
You do me a translation and I 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 brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.” He
slapped his gloves on the edge of the bed.
“Here is the corkscrew, Signor Tenente,” the orderly said.
“Open the bottle. Bring a glass. Drink that, baby. How is your poor
head? I looked at your papers. You haven’t any fracture. That major at
the first post was a hog-butcher. I would take you and never hurt you. I
never hurt anybody. I learn how to do it. 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 and he’ll get you an English medal.”
“They don’t give them like that.”
“You are so modest. I will send the liaison officer. He can handle 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 so long that they become
friends.”
“Maybe girls don’t want to go to the front 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 take it.”
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
all the time in the hot weather don’t you get excited?”
“Sometimes.”
“I can’t imagine lying like that. I would go crazy.”
“You are crazy.”
“I wish you were back. No one to come in at night from adventures. No
one to make fun of. No one to lend 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 that priest. He’s coming to see
you. He makes big preparations.”
“I like him.”
“Oh, I knew it. Sometimes I think you and he are a little 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 I love 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 nothing
inside. You only pretend to be American. We are brothers and we love
each 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. Your lovely 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 foul-mouthed dago.”
“A what?”
“An ignorant wop.”
“Wop. You are a frozen-faced ... 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 taking a girl who has always been
good and a woman. With a girl it is painful. That’s all I know.” He
slapped the bed with his glove. “And you never know if the girl will
really like it.”
“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 am just more affectionate.”
I felt his breath come toward me. “Good-by. I come to see you again
soon.” His breath went away. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want. I’ll
send your English girl. Good-by, baby. The cognac is under the bed. Get
well soon.”
He was gone.
CHAPTER XI
It was dusk when the priest came. They had brought the soup and
afterward taken away the bowls and I was lying looking at the rows of
beds and out 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
with the evening. The flies were on the ceiling now and on the electric
light bulbs that hung on wires. The lights were only turned on when some
one was brought in at night or when something was being done. It made me
feel very young to have 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, brown-faced, 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 Rinaldi and 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 a great 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 pleased and undid them. I held the mosquito netting in 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 half-light from the window was
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 keep it. 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 to be 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 to-night 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 see it. You must forgive me. I know you
are wounded.”
“That is an accident.”
“Still even wounded you do not see it. I can tell. I do not see it
myself but I feel it 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,” he said.
“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 of us.”
“They are mostly different.”
“It is not education or money. It is something else. Even if they had
education or money men like Passini would not wish to be officers. I
would not be an officer.”
“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 make war. 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 watched his face.
“Have they ever been able to stop it?”
“They are not organized to stop things and when they get organized their
leaders 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 will return 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 be too happy. If I 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 man
may love God. It is not a dirty joke.”
“I understand.”
He looked at me and smiled.
“You understand but you do not love 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 and lust. When you love 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.”