“Sure. In Pittsburg. I knew you was an American.”
“Don’t I talk Italian good enough?”
“I knew you was an American all right.”
“Another American,” said the driver in Italian looking at the hernia man.
“Listen, lootenant. Do you have to take me to that regiment?”
“Yes.”
“Because the captain doctor knew I had this rupture. I threw away the goddam truss so it would get bad and I wouldn’t have to go to the line again.”
"I see.”
“Couldn’t you take me no place else?”
“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 go back they'll make me get operated on and then they’ll put me in the line all the time.”
I thought it over.
“You wouldn’t want to go in the line all the time, would you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Jesus Christ, ain’t this a goddam war?”
“Listen,” I said. “You get out and fall 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 side of the road. I helped him down.
“I’ll be right here, lieutenant,” he said.
“So long,” I said. We went on and passed the regiment about a mile ahead, then crossed the river, cloudy with snow-water and running fast through the spiles of the bridge, to ride along the road across the plain
