“Concussions.”
“Real ones?”
“Any time you were cold or couldn’t remember afterwards.”
“Maybe ten,” the Colonel said. “Counting polo. Give or take three.”
“You poor old son of a bitch,” the surgeon said. “Colonel, sir,” he added.
“Can I go now?” the Colonel asked.
“Yes, sir,” the surgeon said. “You’re in good shape.”
“Thanks,” the Colonel said. “Want to go on a duck shoot down in the marshes at the mouth of the Tagliamento? Wonderful shoot. Some nice Italian kids I met up at Cortina own it.”
“Is that where they shoot coots?”
“No. They shoot real ducks at this one. Good kids. Good shoot. Real ducks. Mallard, pin-tail, widgeon. Some geese. Just as good as at home when we were kids.”
“I was kids in twenty-nine and thirty.”
“That’s the first mean thing I ever heard you say.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I didn’t remember when duck shooting was good. I’m a city boy, too.”
“That’s the only God-damn trouble with you, too. I never saw a city boy yet that was worth a damn.”
“You don’t mean that, do you, Colonel?”
“Of course, not. You know damn well I don’t.”
“You’re in good shape, Colonel,” the surgeon said. “I’m sorry I can’t go on the shoot. I can’t even shoot.”
“Hell,” said the Colonel. “That doesn’t make any difference. Neither
