"How are your kids?"
"They're fine. One of the girls is in the fourth grade now. You know, Signor Tenente, if I didn't have the kids I wouldn't be your orderly now. They'd have made me stay in the line all the time."
"I'm glad you've got them."
"So am I. They're fine kids but I want a boy. Three girls and no boy. That's a hell of a note."
"Why don't you try and go to sleep."
"No, I can't sleep now. I'm wide awake now, Signer Tenente. Say, I'm worried about you not sleeping, though."
"It'll be all right, John."
"Imagine a young fellow like you not to sleep."
"I'll get all right. It just takes a while."
"You got to get all right. A man can't get along that don't sleep. Do you worry about anything? You got anything on your mind?"
"No, John, I don't think so."
"You ought to get married, Signor Tenente. Then you wouldn't worry."
"I don't know."
"You ought to get married. Why don't you pick out some nice Italian girl with plenty of money. You could get any one you want. You're young and you got good decorations and you look nice. You been wounded a couple of times."
"I can't talk the language well enough."
"You talk it fine. To hell with talking the language. You don't have to talk to them. Marry them."
"I'll think about it."
"You know some girls, don't you?"
"Sure."
"Well, you marry the one with the most money. Over here, the way they're brought up, they'll all make you a good wife."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think about it; Signor Tenente. Do it."
"All right."
"A man ought to be married. You'll never regret it. Every man ought to be married."
"All right," I said. "Let's try and sleep a while."
"All right, Signor Tenente. I'll try it again. But you remember what I said."
"I'll remember it," I said. "Now let's sleep a while, John."
"All right," he said. "I hope you sleep, Signor Tenante."
I heard him roll in his blankets on the straw and then he was very quiet and I listened to him breathing regularly. Then he started to snore. I listened to him snore for a long time and then I stopped listening to him snore and listened to the silkworms eating. They ate steadily, making a dropping in the leaves. I had a new thing to think about and I lay in the dark with my eyes open and thought of all the girls I had ever known and what kind of wives they would make. It was a very interesting thing to think about and for a while it killed off trout fishing and interfered with my prayers. Finally, though, I went back to trout fishing, because I found that I could remember all the streams and there was always something new about them, while the girls, after I had thought about them a few times, blurred and I could not call them into my mind and finally they all blurred and all became rather the same and I gave up thinking about them almost altogether. But I kept on with my prayers and I prayed very often for John in the nights and his class was removed from active service before the October offensive. I was glad he was not there, because he would have been a great worry to me. He came to the hospital in Milan to see me several months after and was very disappointed that I had not yet married, and I know he would feel very badly if he knew that, so far, I have never married. He was going back to America and he was very certain about marriage and knew it would fix up everything.
A Way You'll Never Be The attack had gone across the field, been held up by machine-gun fire from the sunken road and from the group of farmhouses, encountered no resistance in the town, and reached the bank of the river. Coming along the road on a bicycle, getting off to push the machine when the surface of the road became too broken, Nicholas Adams saw what had happened by the position of the dead.
They lay alone or in clumps in the high grass of the field and along the road, their pockets out, and over them were flies and around each body or group of bodies were the scattered papers.
In the grass and the grain, beside the road, and in some places scattered over the road, there was much material: a field kitchen, it must have come over when things were going well; many of the calfskin-covered haversacks, stick bombs, helmets, rifles, sometimes one butt up, the bayonet stuck in the dirt, they had dug quite a little at the last; stick bombs, helmets, rifles, intrenching tools, ammunition boxes, star-shell pistols, their shells scattered about, medical kits, gas masks, empty gas-mask cans, a squat, tripodded machine gun in a nest of empty shells, full belts protruding from the boxes, the water-cooling can empty and on its side, the breechblock gone, the crew in odd positions, and around them, in the grass, more of the typical papers.
There were mass prayer books, group postcards showing the machine-gun unit standing in ranked and ruddy cheerfulness as in a football picture for a college annual; now they were humped and swollen in the grass; propaganda postcards showing a soldier in Austrian uniform bending a woman backward over a bed; the figures were impressionistically drawn, very attractively depicted and had nothing in common with actual rape in which the woman's skirts are pulled over her head to smother her, one comrade sometimes sitting upon the head. There were many of these inciting cards which had evidently been issued just before the offensive. Now they were scattered with the smutty postcards, photographic; the small photographs of village girls by village photographers, the occasional pictures of children, and the letters, letters, letters. There was always much paper about the dead and the debris of this attack was no exception.
These were new dead and no one had bothered with anything but their pockets. Our own dead, or what he thought of, still, as our own dead, were surprisingly few, Nick noticed. Their coats had been opened too and their pockets were out, and they showed, by their position, the manner and the skill of the attack. The hot weather had swollen them all alike regardless of nationality.
The town had evidently been defended, at the last, from the line of the sunken road and there had been few or no Austrians to fall back into it. There were only three bodies in the street and they looked to have been killed running. The houses of the town were broken by the shelling and the street had much rubble of plaster and mortar and there were broken beams, broken tiles, and many holes, some of them yellow-edged from the mustard gas. There were many pieces of shell, and shrapnel balls were scattered in the rubble. There was no one in the town at all.
Nick Adams had seen no one since he had left Fornaci, although, riding along the road through the over-foliaged country, he had seen guns hidden under screens of mulberry leaves to the left of the road, noticing them by the heat waves in the air above the leaves where the sun hit the metal. Now he went on through the town, surprised to find it deserted, and came out on the low road beneath the bank of the river. Leaving the town there was a bare open space where the road slanted down and he could see the placid reach of the river and the low curve of the opposite bank and the whitened, sun-baked mud where the Austrians had dug. It was all very lush and over-green since he had seen it last and becoming historical had made no change in this, the lower river.
The battalion was along the bank to the left. There was a series of holes in the top of the bank with a few men in them. Nick noticed where the machine guns were posted and the signal rockets in their racks. The men in the holes in the side of the bank were sleeping. No one challenged. He went on and as he came around a turn in the mud bank a young second lieutenant with a stubble of beard and red-rimmed, very bloodshot eyes pointed a pistol at him.
"Who are you?"
Nick told him.
"How do I know this?"
Nick showed him the tessera with photograph and identification and the seal of the Third Army. He took hold of it.
"I will keep this."
"You will not," Nick said. "Give me back the card and put your gun away. There. In the holster."
"How am I to know who you are?"
"The tessera tells you."
"And if the tessera is false? Give me that card."
"Don't be a fool," Nick said cheerfully.. "Take me to your company commander."
"I should send you to battalion headquarters."
"All right," said Nick. "Listen, do you know the Captain Paravicini? The tall one with the small mustache who was an architect and speaks English?"
"You know him?"
"A little."
"What company does he command?"
"The second."
"He is commanding the battalion."
"Good," said Nick. He was relieved to know that Para was all right. "Let us go to the battalion."
As Nick had left the edge of the town three shrapnel had burst high and to the right over one of the wrecked houses and since then there had been no shelling. But the face of this officer looked like the face of a man during a bombardment. There was the same tightness and the voice did not sound natural. His pistol made Nick nervous.
"Put it away," he said. "There's the whole river between them and you."
"If I thought you were a spy I would shoot you now," the second lieutenant said.
"Come on," said Nick. "Let us go to the battalion." This officer made him very nervous.
The Captain Paravicini, acting major, thinner and more English-looking than ever, rose when Nick saluted from behind the table in the dugout that was battalion headquarters.
"Hello," he said. "I didn't know you. What are you doing in that uniform?"
"They've put me in it."
"I am very glad to see you, Nicolo."
"Right. You look well. How was the show?"
"We made a very fine attack. Truly. A very fine attack. I will show you. Look."
He showed on the map how the attack had gone.
"I came from Fornaci," Nick said. "I could see how it had been. It was very good."
"It was extraordinary. Altogether extraordinary. Are you attached to the regiment?"
"No. I am supposed to move around and let them see the uniform."
"How odd."
"If they see one American uniform that is supposed to make them believe others are coming."
"But how will they know it is an American uniform?"
"You will tell them."
"Oh. Yes, I see. I will send a corporal with you to show you about and you will make a tour of the lines."
"Like a bloody politician," Nick said.
"You would be much more distinguished in civilian clothes. They are what is really distinguished."
"With a homburg hat," said Nick.
"Or with a very furry fedora."
"I'm supposed to have my pockets full of cigarettes and postal cards and such things," Nick said. "I should have a musette full of chocolate. These I should distribute with a kind word and a pat on the back. But there weren't any cigarettes and postcards and no chocolate. So they said to circulate around anyway."
"I'm sure your appearance will be very heartening to the troops."
"I wish you wouldn't," Nick said. "I feel badly enough about it as it is. In principle, I would have brought you a bottle of brandy."
"In principle," Para said and smiled, for the first time, showing yellowed teeth. "Such a beautiful expression. Would you like some Grappa?"
"No, thank you," Nick said.
"It hasn't any ether in it."
"I can taste that still," Nick remembered suddenly and completely.
"You know I never knew you were drunk until you started talking coming back in the camions."
"I was stinking in every attack," Nick said.
"I can't do it," Para said. "I took it in the first show, the very first show, and it only made me very upset and then frightfully thirsty."
"You don't need it."
"You're much braver in an attack than I am."
"No," Nick said. "I know how I am and I prefer to get stinking. I'm not ashamed of it."
"I've never seen you drunk."
"No?" said Nick. "Never? Not when we rode from Mestre to Portogrande that night and I wanted to go to sleep and used the bicycle for a blanket and pulled it up under my chin?"
"That wasn't in the lines."
"Let's not talk about how I am," Nick said. "It's a subject I know too much about to want to think about it any more."
"You might as well stay here a while," Paravicini said. "You can take a nap if you like. They didn't do much to this in the bombardment. It's too hot to go out yet."
"I suppose there is no hurry."
"How are you really?"
"I'm fine. I'm perfectly all right."