William F. Buckley Jr. Read Free Page A

and Henry was just fine. A real pity, to be sure, that he was a fucking coward. Danny smiled. He savored the formulation.

Three
    B ACK THEN, in the field hospital, Private Henry Chafee had declined to speak to anybody. After three days of this, the doctor concluded that his muteness was a part of the trauma. On Day Five, the company clerk came around to record the exact circumstances of Henry’s battle wound. “I know you can’t talk,” the corporal said, his notepad in front of him, “so just nod your head yes or no, and if necessary you can write on this pad here, okay, buddy?”
    Henry closed his eyes and turned his head away. Only the sound of the big fan was heard, blowing in hot air, it seemed. The clerk faltered; then, after a minute or two, he rose from his chair. “Okay, okay. So you don’t want any of this business. We can get the details from O’Hara. Get better.”
    He walked out of the long, hot tent where the casualties were stretched out, twenty-four of them, on army cots. He wondered to himself whether that was the smell of blood pure and simple. Or was it a combination, blood and all the medications one takes when blood works its way out of where it is supposed to stay. Whatever, it was unpleasant. He resolved, mockingly, not to be wounded. The corporal was glad to breathe air less fetid, though in the hot sun of the Arno Valley it was hotter than in the tent with its two big fans.
    Danny thought it prudent simply to leave Henry alone, at least for the first week. What he did was write him a letter, meticulously sealed, on the envelope of which he wrote,
    To be opened and read only by Pvt. Henry Chafee.
    What he wrote was that, although he, Danny, did not know the correct term for it, he had to assume there was one such word: the word that described the man suddenly frozen in battle, immobilized. “I know enough about people in general, and about you, to know that it isn’t a mark of—well, of an organic character defect. So let’s let that one lie. Now, what I did on Monday you are free to think of as specially fraternal, or any way you want to put it, but it seemed to me totally logical at the time, and I’m only sorry I wasn’t quick enough on the draw to get that fucking carbine away from you. Anyway, I’ll leave you alone a few days and then I’ll come around.”
    In fact, Danny mused, Henry’s suicide attempt wonderfully capped the subterfuge. The company records showed that Private H. Chafee had been stopped by an enemy bullet while charging forward in pursuit of duty, and was subsequently dragged forward and then carried by his fellow soldier to the medical center. It was too good.
    Danny went in on Saturday. He asked the nurse at the desk whether Private Chafee would receive Pfc. O’Hara. “Just ask him. Don’t pressure him.” An answer came in over the primitive intercom: Pfc. O’Hara to proceed to Ward B.
    Danny walked to the designated area and at the entrance to the ward asked an attendant which was the number for Henry Chafee. He would just as soon not need to stare at the faces of adozen or more mutilated men just to find Henry’s bed. But he had maneuvering to do even within the ward he was looking for. A doctor or nurse or aide here, with the need to step around them and the paraphernalia of a hospital, trays at various levels, bottles, tubes, all of them to be skirted.
    At number 12A he saw him. Henry’s face was unshaven, a blond beard gestating; but his head was intact, the heavy bandages beginning only at chest level. His left arm was strapped to his side to accommodate the two needles, one giving him nourishment, the other blood plasma. Danny said nothing, but took Henry’s hand. Henry began to cry. Danny looked around protectively, but in the ambient misery, quiet tears were not noticed. Danny gave him time. Then he said gently, “You got my letter?”
    Henry nodded.
    “Well, I have a proposal. It is really quite simple. It is that we won’t ever discuss what