“Do you think they will send Americans down here?” asked the adjutant.
“Oh, absolutely. Americans twice as large as myself, healthy, with clean hearts, sleep at night, never been wounded, never been blown up, never had their heads caved in, never been scared, don’t drink, faithful to the girls they left behind them, many of them never had crabs, wonderful chaps. You’ll see.”
“Are you an Italian?” asked the adjutant.
“No, American. Look at the uniform. Spagnolini made it but it’s not quite correct.”
“A North or South American?”
“North,” said Nick. He felt it coming on now. He would quiet down.
“But you speak Italian.”
“Why not? Do you mind if I speak Italian? Haven’t I a right to speak Italian?”
“You have Italian medals.”
“Just the ribbons and the papers. The medals come later. Or you give them to people to keep and the people go away; or they are lost with your baggage. You can purchase others in Milan. It is the papers that are of importance. You must not feel badly about them. You will have some yourself if you stay at the front long enough.”
“I am a veteran of the Eritrea campaign,” said the adjutant stiffly. “I fought in Tripoli.”
“It’s quite something to have met you,” Nick put out his hand. “Those must have been trying days. I noticed the ribbons. Were you, by any chance, on the Carso?”
“I have just been called up for this war. My class was too old.”
“At one time I was under the age limit,” Nick said. “But now I am reformed out of the war.”
“But why are you here now?”
“I am demonstrating the American uniform,” Nick said. “Don’t you think it is very significant? It is a little tight in the collar but soon you will see untold millions wearing this
