“Cough,” I said.
“I’m afraid it will make it bigger. It’s twice as big as it was this morning.”
“Sit down,” I said. “As soon as I get the papers on these wounded I’ll take you along the road and drop you with your medical officers.”
“He’ll say I did it on purpose.”
“They can’t do anything,” I said. “It’s not a wound. You’ve had it before, haven’t you?”
“But I lost the truss.”
“They’ll send you to a hospital.”
“Can’t I stay here, Tenente?”
“No, I haven’t any papers for you.”
The driver came out of the door with the papers for the wounded in the car.
“Four for 105. Two for 132,” he said. They were hospitals beyond the river.
“You drive,” I said. I helped the soldier with the rupture up on the seat with us.
“You speak English?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“How you like this goddam war?”
“Rotten.”
“I say it’s rotten. Jesus Christ, I say it’s rotten.”
“Were you in the States?”
“Sure. In Pittsburgh. 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.”
