A Farewell to Arms Chapter IX

As an example for IronHorseXLiveStrong of interesting boredom interrupted by sudden action, I’ve copied an excerpt from A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway from archive.org. You can read it in its entirety there and I suggest doing so when you can, but buy a copy. Online reading is hard and you’re likely to miss more. Savor the text. I’ve put an asterisk where the action happens so use ctrl + F “*” to jump there, then back up a page or two to be lulled before the surprise. It’s a bit gruesome as the chapter is about being shelled during WWI.

A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

CHAPTER IX

The road was crowded and there were screens of

corn-stalk and straw matting on both sides and matting

over the top so that it was like the entrance at a circus

or a native village. We drove slowly in this matting-

covered tunnel and came out onto a bare cleared space

where the railway station had been. The road here was

below the level of the river bank and all along the side

of the sunken road there were holes dug in the bank

with infantry in them. The sun was going down and

looking up along the bank as we drove I saw the Aus-

trian observation balloons above the hills on the other

side dark against the sunset. We parked the cars be-

yond a brickyard. The ovens and some deep holes had

been equipped as dressing stations. There were three

doctors that I knew. I talked with the major and

learned that when it should start and our cars should be

loaded we would drive them back along the screened

road and up to the main road along the ridge where

there would be a post and other cars to clear them.

He hoped the road would not jam. It was a one-road

show. The road was screened because it was in sight of

the Austrians across the river. Here at the brickyard

we were sheltered from rifle or machine-gun fire by the

river bank. There was one smashed bridge across the

river. They were going to put over another bridge

when the bombardment started and some troops were

to cross at the shallows up above at the bend of the

river. The major was a little man with upturned mus-

taches. He had been in the war in Libya and wore two

wound-stripes. He said that if the thing went well he

49

So A FAREWELL TO ARMS

would see that I was decorated. I said I hoped it would

go well but that he was too kind. I asked him if there

was a big dugout where the drivers could stay and he

sent a soldier to show me. I went with him and found

the dugout, which was very good. The drivers were

pleased with it and I left them there. The major asked

me to have a drink with him and two other officers. We

drank rum and it was very friendly. Outside it was get-

ting dark. I asked what time the attack was to be and

they said as soon as it was dark. I went back to the

drivers. They were sitting in the dugout talking and

when I came in they stopped. I gave them each a pack-

age of cigarettes, Macedonias, loosely packed ciga-

rettes that spilled tobacco and needed to have the ends

twisted before you smoked them. Manera lit his lighter

and passed it around. The lighter was shaped like a

Fiat radiator. I told them what I had heard.

“Why didn’t we see the post when we came down?”

Passini asked.

“It was just beyond where we turned off.”

“That road will be a dirty mess,” Manera said.

“They’ll shell the out of us.”

“Probably.”

“What about eating, lieutenant? We won’t get a

chance to eat after this thing starts.”

“Fll go and see now,” I said.

“You want us to stay here or can we look around ?”

“Better stay here.”

I went back to the major’s dugout and he said the field

kitchen would be along and the drivers could come and

get their stew. He would loan them mess tins if they did

not have them. I said I thought they had them. I went

back and told the drivers I would get them as soon as the

food came. Manera said he hoped it would come before

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 51

the bombardment started. They were silent until I went

out. They were all mechanics and hated the war.

I went out to look at the cars and see what was going

on and then came back and sat down in the dugout with

the four drivers. We sat on the ground with our backs

against the wall and smoked. Outside it was nearly dark.

The earth of the dugout was warm and dry and I let my

shoulders back against the wall, sitting on the small of

my back, and relaxed.

“Who goes to the attack ?” asked Gavuzzi.

“Bersaglieri.”

“All bersaglieri?”

“I think so.”

“There aren’t enough troops here for a real attack.”

“It is probably to draw attention from where the real

attack will be.”

“Do the men know that who attack?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course they don’t,” Manera said. “They wouldn’t

attack if they did.”

“Yes they would,” Passini said. “Bersaglieri are

fools.”

“They are brave and have good discipline,” I said.

“They are big through the chest by measurement, and

healthy. But they are still fools.”

“The granatieri are tall,” Manera said. This was a

joke. They all laughed.

“Were you there, Tenente, when they wouldn’t at-

tack and they shot every tenth man?”

“No.”

“It is true. They lined them up afterward and took

every tenth man. Carabinieri shot them.”

“Carabinieri,” said Passini and spat on the floor.

52 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

“But those grenadiers ; all over six feet. They wouldn’t

attack.”

“If everybody would not attack the war would be

over,” Manera said.

“It wasn’t that way with the granatieri. They were

afraid. The officers all came from such good families.”

“Some of the officers went alone.”

“A sergeant shot two officers who would not get

out.”

“Some troops went out”

“Those that went out were not lined up when they

took the tenth men.”

“One of those shot by the carabinieri is from my

town,” Passini said. “He was a big smart tall boy to be

in the granatieri. Always in Rome. Always with the

girls. Always with the carabinieri.” He laughed.

“Now they have a guard outside his house with a bayo-

net and nobody can come to see his mother and father

and sisters and his father loses his civil rights and can-

not even vote. They are all without law to protect them.

Anybody can take their property.”

“If it wasn’t that that happens to their families no-

body would go to the attack.”

“Yes. Alpini would. These V. E. soldiers would.

Some bersaglieri.”

“Bersaglieri have run too. Now they try to forget

it.”

“You should not let us talk this way, Tenente. Ev-

viva 1’esercito,” Passini said sarcastically.

“I know how you talk,” I said. “But as long as you

drive the cars and behave ”

” — and don’t talk so other officers can hear,” Manera

finished.

“I believe we should get the war over,” I said. “It

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 53

would not finish it if one side stopped fighting. It

would only be worse if we stopped fighting/’

“It could not be worse,” Passini said respectfully.

“There is nothing worse than war.”

“Defeat is worse.”

“I do not believe it,” Passini said still respectfully.

“What is defeat? You go home.”

“They come after you. They take your home. They

take your sisters.”

“I don’t believe it,” Passini said. “They can’t do that

to everybody. Let everybody defend his home. Let

them keep their sisters in the house.”

“They hang you. They come and make you be a

soldier again. Not in the auto-ambulance, in the in-

fantry.”

“They can’t hang every one.”

“An outside nation can’t make you be a soldier,”

Manera said. “At the first battle you all run.”

“Like the Tchecos.”

“I think you do not know anything about being con-

quered and so you think it is not bad.”

“Tenente,” Passini said. “We understand you let us

talk. Listen. There is nothing as bad as war. We in

the auto-ambulance cannot even realize at all how bad

it is. When people realize how bad it is they cannot do

anything to stop it because they go crazy. There are

some people who never realize. There are people who

are afraid of their officers. It is with them that war is

made.”

“I know it is bad but we must finish it.”

“It doesn’t finish. There is no finish to a war.”

“Yes there is.”

Passini shook his head.

“War is not won by victory. What if we take San

54 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Gabriele? What if we take the Carso and Monfalcone

and Trieste? Where are we then? Did you see all the

far mountains to-day? Do you think we could take all

them too? Only if the Austrians stop fighting. One

side must stop fighting. Why don’t we stop fighting?

If they come down into Italy they will get tired and

go away. They have their own country. But no, in-

stead there is a war.”

“You’re an orator/’

“We think. We read. We are not peasants. We are

mechanics. But even the peasants know better than to

believe in a war. Everybody hates this war.”

“There is a class that controls a country that is stupid

and does not realize anything and never can. That is

why we have this war.”

“Also they make money out of it.”

“Most of them don’t,” said Passini. “They are too

stupid. They do it for nothing. For stupidity.”

“We must shut up,” said Manera. “We talk too

much even for the Tenente.”

“He likes it,” said Passini. “We will convert him.”

“But now we will shut up,” Manera said.

“Do we eat yet, Tenente?” Gavuzzi asked.

“I will go and see,” I said. Gordini stood up and

went outside with me.

“Is there anything I can do, Tenente? Can I help in

any way?” He was the quietest one of the four.

“Come with me if you want,” I said, “and we’ll see.”

It was dark outside and the long light from the

search-lights was moving over the mountains. There

were big search-lights on that front mounted on cami-

ons that you passed sometimes on the roads at night,

close behind the lines, the camion stopped a little off the

road, an officer directing the light and the crew scared.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 55

We crossed the brickyard, and stopped at the main

dressing station. There was a little shelter of green

branches outside over the entrance and in the dark the

night wind rustled the leaves dried by the sun. Inside

there was a light. The major was at the telephone sit-

ting on a box. One of the medical captains said the at-

tack had been put forward an hour. He offered me a

glass of cognac. I looked at the board tables, the in-

struments shining in the light, the basins and the stop-

pered bottles. Gordini stood behind me. The major

got up from the telephone.

“It starts now,” he said. “It has been put back

again.”

I looked outside, it was dark and the Austrian search-

lights were moving on the mountains behind us. It was

quiet for a moment still, then from all the guns behind

us the bombardment started.

“Savoia,” said the major.

“About the soup, major,” I said. He did not hear

me. I repeated it.

“It hasn’t come up.”

A big shell came in and burst outside in the brick-

yard. Another burst and in the noise you could hear

the smaller noise of the brick and dirt raining down.

“What is there to eat?”

“We have a little pasta asciutta,” the major said.

“I’ll take what you can give me.”

The major spoke to an orderly who went out of

sight in the back and came back with a metal basin of

cold cooked macaroni. I handed it to Gordini.

“Have you any cheese?”

The major spoke grudgingly to the orderly who

ducked back into the hole again and came out with a

quarter of a white cheese.

56 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“You’d better not go out.”

Outside something was set down beside the entrance.

One of the two men who had carried it looked in.

“Bring him in,” said the major. “What’s the matter

with you? Do you want us to come outside and get

him?”

The two stretcher-bearers picked up the man under

the arms and by the legs and brought him in.

“Slit the tunic,” the major said.

He held a forceps with some gauze in the end. The

two captains took off their coats. “Get out of here,” the

major said to the two stretcher-bearers.

“Come on,” I said to Gordini.

“You better wait until the shelling is over,” the ma-

jor said over his shoulder.

“They want to eat,” I said.

“As you wish.”

Outside we ran across the brickyard. A shell burst

short near the river bank. Then there was one that we

did not hear coming until the sudden rush. We both

went flat and with the flash and bump of the burst and

the smell heard the singing off of the fragments and

the rattle of falling brick. Gordini got up and ran for

the dugout. I was after him, holding the cheese, its

smooth surface covered with brick dust. Inside the

dugout were the three drivers sitting against the wall,

smoking.

“Here, you patriots,” I said.

“How are the cars?” Manera asked.

“All right.”

“Did they scare you, Tenente?”

“You’re damned right,” I said.

I took out my knife, opened it, wiped off the blade

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 57

and pared off the dirty outside surface of the cheese.

Gavuzzi handed me the basin of macaroni.

“Start in to eat, Tenente.”

“No,” I said. “Put it on the floor. We’ll all eat.”

“There are no forks.”

“What the hell,” I said in English.

I cut the cheese into pieces and laid them on the

macaroni.

“Sit down to it,” I said. They sat down and waited.

I put thumb and fingers into the macaroni and lifted.

A mass loosened.

“Lift it high, Tenente.”

I lifted it to arm’s length and the strands cleared. I

lowered it into the mouth, sucked and snapped in the

ends, and chewed, then took a bite of cheese, chewed,

and then a drink of the wine. It tasted of rusty metal.

I handed the canteen back to Passini.

“It’s rotten/’ he said. “It’s been in there too long.

I had it in the car.”

They were all eating, holding their chins close over

the basin, tipping their heads back, sucking in the ends.

I took another mouthful and some cheese and a rinse of

wine. Something landed outside that shook the earth.

“Four hundred twenty or minnenwerfer,” Gavuzzi

said.

“There aren’t any four hundred twenties in the

mountains,” I said.

“They have big Skoda guns. I’ve seen the holes.”

“Three hundred fives.”

We went on eating. There was a cough, a noise like

a railway engine starting and then an explosion that

shook the earth again.

“This isn’t a deep dugout,” Passini said.

“That was a big trench mortar.”

58 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

“Yes, sir.”

*I ate the end of my piece of cheese and took a swal-

low of wine. Through the other noise I heard a cough,

then came the chuh-chuh-chuh-chuh — then there was a

flash, as when a blast-furnace door is swung open, and

a roar that started white and went red and on and on in

a rushing wind. I tried to breathe but my breath would

not come and I felt myself rush bodily out of myself

and out and out and out and all the time bodily in the

wind. I went out swiftly, all of myself, and I knew I

was dead and that it had all been a mistake to think you

just died. Then I floated, and instead of going on I felt

myself slide back. I breathed and I was back. The

ground was torn up and in front of my head there was

a splintered beam of wood. In the jolt of my head I

heard somebody crying. I thought somebody was

screaming. I tried to move but I could not move. I

heard the machine-guns and rifles firing across the river

and all along the river. There was a great splashing and

I saw the star-shells go up and burst and float whitely

and rockets going up and heard the bombs, all this in a

moment, and then I heard close to me some one saying

“Mama Mia! Oh, mama Mia!” I pulled and twisted

and got my legs loose finally and turned around and

touched him. It was Passini and when I touched him

he screamed. His legs were toward me and I saw in

the dark and the light that they were both smashed

above the knee. One leg was gone and the other was

held by tendons and part of the trouser and the stump

twitched and jerked as though it were not connected.

He bit his arm and moaned, “Oh mama mia, mama

Mia,” then, “Dio te salve, Maria. Dio te salve, Maria.

Oh Jesus shoot me Christ shoot me mama mia mama

Mia oh purest lovely Mary shoot me. Stop it. Stop it.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 59

Stop it. Oh Jesus lovely Mary stop it. Oh oh oh oh,”

then choking, “Mama mama mia.” Then he was quiet,

biting his arm, the stump of his leg twitching.

“Porta feriti I” I shouted holding my hands cupped.

“Porta Feriti I” I tried to get closer to Passini to try

to put a tourniquet on the legs but I could not move. I

tried again and my legs moved a little. I could pull

backward along with my arms and elbows. Passini

was quiet now. I sat beside him, undid my tunic and

tried to rip the tail of my shirt. It would not rip and

I bit the edge of the cloth to start it. Then I thought of

his puttees. I had on wool stockings but Passini wore

puttees. All the drivers wore puttees but Passini had

only one leg. I unwound the puttee and while I was

doing it I saw there was no need to try and make a

tourniquet because he was dead already. I made sure

he was dead. There were three others to locate. I sat

up straight and as I did so something inside my head

moved like the weights on a doll’s eyes and it hit me

inside in back of my eyeballs. My legs felt warm and

wet and my shoes were wet and warm inside. I knew

that I was hit and leaned over and put my hand on my

knee. My knee wasn’t there. My hand went in and

my knee was down on my shin. I wiped my hand on

my shirt and another floating light came very slowly

down and I looked at my leg and was very afraid. Oh,

God, I said, get me out of here. I knew, however, that

there had been three others. There were four drivers.

Passini was dead. That left three. Some one took

hold of me under the arms and somebody else lifted my

legs.

“There are three others,” I said. “One is dead.”

“It’s Manera. We went for a stretcher but there

wasn’t any. How are you, Tenente?”

60 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

“Where is Gordini and Gavuzzi?”

“Gordini’s at the post getting bandaged. Gavuzzi

has your legs. Hold on to my neck, Tenente. Are you

badly hit?”

“In the leg. How is Gordini?”

“He’s all right. It was a big trench mortar shell.”

“Passings dead.”

“Yes. He’s dead.”

A shell fell close and they both dropped to the ground

and dropped me. “I’m sorry, Tenente,” said Manera.

“Hang onto my neck.”

“If you drop me again.”

“It was because we were scared.”

“Are you unwounded?”

“We are both wounded a little.”

“Can Gordini drive?”

“I don’t think so.”

They dropped me once more before we reached the

post.

“You sons of bitches,” I said.

“I am sorry, Tenente,” Manera said. “We won’t

drop you again.”

Outside the post a great many of us lay on the

ground in the dark. They carried wounded in and

brought them out. I could see the light come out from

the dressing station when the curtain opened and they

brought some one in or out. The dead were off to one

side. The doctors were working with their sleeves up

to their shoulders and were red as butchers. There

were not enough stretchers. Some of the wounded

were noisy but most were quiet. The wind blew the

leaves in the bower over the door of the dressing sta-

tion and the night was getting cold. Stretcher-bearers

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 61

came in all the time, put their stretchers down, un-

loaded them and went away. As soon as I got to the

dressing station Manera brought a medical sergeant

out and he put bandages on both my legs. He said

there was so much dirt blown into the wound that there

had not been much hemorrhage. They would take me

as soon as possible. He went back inside. Gordini

could not drive, Manera said. His shoulder was

smashed and his head was hurt. He had not felt bad

but now the shoulder had stiffened. He was sitting up

beside one of the brick walls. Manera and Gavuzzi

each went off with a load of wounded. They could drive

all right. The British had come with three ambulances

and they had two men on each ambulance. One of their

drivers came over to me, brought by Gordini who

looked very white and sick. The Britisher leaned over.

“Are you hit badly ?” he asked. He was a tall man

and wore steel-rimmed spectacles.

“In the legs.”

“It’s not serious I hope. Will you have a cigarette ?”

“Thanks.”

“They tell me you’ve lost two drivers. ,,

“Yes. One killed and the fellow that brought you.”

“What rotten luck. Would you like us to take the

cars?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“We’d take quite good care of them and return

them to the Villa. 206 aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a charming place. I’ve seen you about. They

tell me you’re an American.”

“Yes.”

“I’m English.”

62 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

u Nor

“Yes, English. Did you think I was Italian? There

were some Italians with one of our units.”

“It would be fine if you would take the cars,” I said.

“We’ll be most careful of them,” he straightened up.

“This chap of yours was very anxious for me to see

you.” He patted Gordini on the shoulder. Gordini

winced and smiled. The Englishman broke into voluble

and perfect Italian. “Now everything is arranged. I’ve

seen your Tenente. We will take over the two cars.

You won’t worry now.” He broke off, “I must do

something about getting you out of here. I’ll see the

medical wallahs. We’ll take you back with us.”

He walked across to the dressing station, stepping

carefully among the wounded. I saw the blanket open,

the light came out and he went in.

“He will look after you, Tenente,” Gordini said.

“How are you, Franco?”

“I am all right.” He sat down beside me. In a

moment the blanket in front of the dressing station

opened and two stretcher-bearers came out followed by

the tall Englishman. He brought them over to me.

“Here is the American Tenente,” he said in Italian.

“I’d rather wait,” I said. “There are much worse

wounded than me. I’m all right.”

“Come come,” he said. “Don’t be a bloody hero.”

Then in Italian: “Lift him very carefully about the

legs. His legs are very painful. He is the legitimate

son of President Wilson.” They picked me up and

took me into the dressing room. Inside they were oper-

ating on all the tables. The little major looked at us

furious. He recognized me and waved a forceps.

“Qavabien?”

“Ca va.”

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 63

“I have brought him in,” the tall Englishman said in

Italian. “The only son of the American Ambassador.

He can be here until you are ready to take him. Then I

will take him with my first load.” He bent over me.

“I’ll look up their adjutant to do your papers and it will

all go much faster.” He stooped to go under the door-

way and went out. The major was unhooking the for-

ceps now, dropping them in a basin. I followed his

hands with my eyes. Now he was bandaging. Then

the stretcher-bearers took the man off the table.

“I’ll take the American Tenente,” one of the captains

said. They lifted me onto the table. It was hard and

slippery. There were many strong smells, chemical

smells and the sweet smell of blood. They took off my

trousers and the medical captain commenced dictating

to the sergeant-adjutant while he worked, “Multiple

superficial wounds of the left and right thigh and left

and right knee and right foot. Profound wounds of

right knee and foot. Lacerations of the scalp (he

probed — Does that hurt? — Christ, yes!) with pos-

sible fracture of the skull. Incurred in the line of duty.

That’s what keeps you from being court-martialled for

self-inflicted wounds,” he said. “Would you like a drink

of brandy? How did you run into this thing anyway?

What were you trying to do ? Commit suicide ? Anti-

tetanus please, and mark a cross on both legs. Thank

you. I’ll clean this up a little, wash it out, and put on a

dressing. Your blood coagulates beautifully.”

The adjutant, looking up from the paper, “What in-

flicted the wounds ?”

The medical captain, “What hit you ?”

Me, with the eyes shut, “A trench mortar shell.”

The captain, doing things that hurt sharply and

severing tissue — “Are you sure?”

64 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Me — trying to lie still and feeling my stomach flut-

ter when the flesh was cut, “I think so.”

Captain doctor — (interested in something he was

finding), “Fragments of enemy trench-mortar shell.

Now I’ll probe for some of this if you like but it’s not

necessary. Til paint all this and — Does that sting?

Good, that’s nothing to how it will feel later. The pain

hasn’t started yet. Bring him a glass of brandy. The

shock dulls the pain ; but this is all right, you have noth-

ing to worry about if it doesn’t infect and it rarely

does now. How is your head?”

“Good Christ!” I said.

“Better not drink too much brandy then. If you’ve

got a fracture you don’t want inflammation. How does

that feel?”

Sweat ran all over me.

“Good Christ!” I said.

“I guess you’ve got a fracture all right. I’ll wrap

you up and don’t bounce your head around.” He band-

aged, his hands moving very fast and the bandage

coming taut and sure. “All right, good luck and Vive

la France.”

“He’s an American,” one of the other captains said.

“I thought you said he was a Frenchman. He talks

French,” the captain said. “I’ve known him before. I

always thought he was French.” He drank a half

tumbler of cognac. “Bring on something serious. Get

some more of that Anti-tetanus.” The captain waved to

me. They lifted me and the blanket-flap went across

my face as we went out. Outside the sergeant-adjutant

knelt down beside me where I lay, “Name?” he asked

softly. “Middle name? First name? Rank? Where

born? What class? What corps?” and so on. “I’m

A FAREWELL TO ARMS 65

sorry for your head, Tenente. I hope you feel better.

I’m sending you now with the English ambulance.’ ‘

“Frri all right,” I said. ‘Thank you very much.”

The pain that the major had spoken about had started

and all that was happening was without interest or rela-

tion. After a while the English ambulance came up

and they put me onto a stretcher and lifted the stretcher

up to the ambulance level and shoved it in. There was

another stretcher by the side with a man on it whose

nose I could see, waxy-looking, out of the bandages.

He breathed very heavily. There were stretchers lifted

and slid into the slings above. The tall English driver

came around and looked in, “I’ll take it very easily,” he

said. “I hope you’ll be comfy.” I felt the engine start,

felt him climb up into the front seat, felt the brake

come off and the clutch go in, then we started. I lay

still and let the pain ride.

As the ambulance climbed along the road, it was slow

in the traffic, sometimes it stopped, sometimes it backed

on a turn, then finally it climbed quite fast. I felt

something dripping. At first it dropped slowly and reg-

ularly, then it pattered into a stream. I shouted to the

driver. He stopped the car and looked in through the

hole behind his seat.

“What is it?”

“The man on the stretcher over me has a hemor-

rhage.”

“We’re not far from the top. I wouldn’t be able to

get the stretcher out alone.” He started the car. The

stream kept on. In the dark I could not see where it

came from the canvas overhead. I tried to move side-

ways so that it did not fall on me. Where it had run

down under my shirt it was warm and sticky. I was

cold and my leg hurt so that it made me sick. After a

66 A FAREWELL TO ARMS

while the stream from the stretcher above lessened and

started to drip again and I heard and felt the canvas

above move as the man on the stretcher settled more

comfortably.

“How is he?” the Englishman called back. “We’re

almost up.”

“He’s dead I think,” I said.

The drops fell very slowly, as they fall from an icicle

after the sun has gone. It was cold in the car in the

night as the road climbed. At the post on the top they

took the stretcher out and put another in and we went

on.