“It’s been a long time,” the Colonel said.
“We sound like song writers,” the surgeon said. “But don’t you ever run into anything, or let any sparks strike you, when you’re really souped up on nitroglycerin. They ought to make you drag a chain like a high-octane truck.”
“Wasn’t my cardiograph O.K.?” the Colonel asked.
“Your cardiograph was wonderful, Colonel. It could have been that of a man of twenty-five. It might have been that of a boy of nineteen.”
“Then what are you talking about?” the Colonel asked.
That much mannitol hexanitrate produced a certain amount of nausea, sometimes, and he was anxious for the interview to terminate. He was also anxious to lie down and take a seconal. I ought to write the manual of minor tactics for the heavy pressure platoon, he thought. Wish I could tell him that. Why don’t I just throw myself on the mercy of the court? You never do, he told himself. You always plead them non-guilty.
“How many times have you been hit in the head?” the surgeon asked him.
“You know,” the Colonel told him. “It’s in my 201.”
“How many times have you been hit on the head?”
“Oh Christ.” Then he said, “You are asking for the army or as my physician?”
“As your physician. You didn’t think I’d try to wind your clock, did you?”
“No, Wes. I’m sorry. Just what was it you wanted to know?”
