A Farewell to Arms Read Free Page A

stations.
    “Do they ever shell that battery?” Tasked one of the mechanics.
    “No, Signor Tenente. It is protected by the little hill.”
    “How's everything?”
    “Not so bad. This machine is no good but the others march.” He stopped working and smiled. “Were you on permission?”
    “Yes.”
    He wiped his hands on his jumper and grinned. “You have a good time?” The others all grinned too.
    “Fine,” I said. “What's the matter with this machine?”
    “It's no good. One thing after another.”
    “What's the matter now?”
    “New rings.”
    I left them working, the car looking disgraced and empty with the engine open and parts spread on the work bench, and went in under the shed and looked at each of the cars. They were moderately clean, a few freshly washed, the others dusty. I looked at the tires carefully, looking for cuts or stone bruises. Everything seemed in good condition. It evidently made no difference whether I was there to look after things or not. I had imagined that the condition of the cars, whether or not things were obtainable, the smooth functioning of the business of removing wounded and sick from the dressing stations, hauling them back from the mountains to the clearing station and then distributing them to the hospitals named on their papers, depended to a considerable extent on myself. Evidently it did not matter whether I was there or not.
    “Has there been any trouble getting parts?” I asked the sergeant mechanic.
    “No, Signor Tenente.”
    “Where is the gasoline park now?”
    “At the same place.”
    “Good,” I said and went back to the house and drank another bowl of coffee at the mess table. The coffee was a pale gray and sweet with condensed milk. Outside the window it was a lovely spring morning. There was that beginning of a feeling of dryness in the nose that meant the day would be hot later on. That day I visited the posts in the mountains and was back in town late in the afternoon.
    The whole thing seemed to run better while I was away. The offensive was going to start again I heard. The division for which we worked were to attack at a place up the river and the major told me that I would see about the posts for during the attack. The attack would cross the river up above the narrow gorge and spread up the hillside. The posts for the cars would have to be as near the river as they could get and keep covered. They would, of course, be selected by the infantry but we were supposed to work it out. It was one of those things that gave you a false feeling of soldiering.
    I was very dusty and dirty and went up to my room to wash. Rinaldi was sitting on the bed with a copy of Hugo's English grammar. He was dressed, wore his black boots, and his hair shone.
    “Splendid,” he said when he saw me. “You will come with me to see Miss Barkley.”
    "No.
    “Yes. You will please come and make me a good impression on her.”
    “All right. Wait till I get cleaned up.”
    “Wash up and come as you are.”
    I washed, brushed my hair and we started.
    “Wait a minute,” Rinaldi said. “Perhaps we should have a drink.” He opened his trunk and took out a bottle.
    “Not Strega,” I said.
    “No. Grappa.”
    “All right.”
    He poured two glasses and we touched them, first fingers extended. The grappa was very strong.
    “Another?”
    “All right,” I said. We drank the second grappa, Rinaldi put away the bottle and we went down the stairs. It was hot walking through the town but the sun was starting to go down and it was very pleasant. The British hospital was a big villa built by Germans before the war. Miss Barkley was in the garden. Another nurse was with her. We saw their white uniforms through the trees and walked toward them. Rinaldi saluted. I saluted too but more moderately.
    “How do you do?” Miss Barkley said. “You're not an Italian, are you?”
    “Oh, no.”
    Rinaldi was talking with the other nurse. They were laughing. “What an odd thing--to be in the