Part 13

"I saw you at my grave. Join me! You still have your rifle in your room."

Did he sound like that? Orville asked himself.

Pausing, standing in the dark road, he saw the Renault cross a field, its turret gun lowered, the treads silent, the motor noiseless ... inside the tank, a blond face, a face with blood smeared on it ... a silent shell exploded.

The Renault slumped behind a hedge.

Smoke rose.

Orville approached an inn and opened the partly open door: the room was friendly, like a rustic pub, with a stone fireplace at the far end and a bar jutting out at an angle, cutting off part of the room. A fire roared and the firelight labelled liquor bottles and a collection of miniatures on a series of shelves. A police dog barked at Orville but a young woman shooed him away with a broom, laughing. She invited Orville to sit down, and at the same moment farmers tramped in and gathered around a table, talking loudly, their shoes and clothes smelling of manure. One of them demanded a deck of cards and began removing his black leather jacket.

An odor of lamb mixed with garlic attacked the smell of manure: Orville was amused as he sat alone, watching. He hoped he might get some country fare and thought of remaining overnight, if they had a room that was clean enough. Clean ... of course it must be clean, he ridiculed himself, remembering the tanks, the war.

The young girl was drying her hands on a towel, as she stood by the farmers. The men stared at Orville, eyes and gestures showing their antagonism. The big fire in the fireplace interested Orville more than the farmers: its bigness was a welcome; the heat too was welcome. He was eyeing the fire when the girl asked him if he wanted some wine.

"Some wine ... something to eat?"

"What are you serving? Do you have Chablis ... I want something to eat ... wine with my meal."

She thought him well dressed: what's he doing here? Where's he from? No jeep or car.

"We've mutton stew," she muttered.

"What else?"

"Roast beef."

"So ... soup de jour, beef, potatoes, a vegetable."

"Chablis?"

"Yes."

The farmers settled down noisily to their cards and beer; when Orville finished his meal he felt locked in himself; the fire was dying down; the place had lost its welcome; he talked with the girl as she refilled his glass: he could not return home, he talked about E, about farmers he had known: the girl was about twenty, twenty-two, plain, blonde, her hair in a braided loop on top of her head. Two of her front teeth were missing. But she had a neat span around her waist and nice legs: she was a woman to sleep with.

"Pastry?" she asked.

"Later," he said, aware of how soon he would be trapped in the war, a low-flying plane part of that realization.

Later ...

She waited on the farmers; he had pastry and coffee and drowsed by the sleepy fire; presently, with a scraping of shoes and chairs, the farmers left; a lone customer remained. A man who had the appearance of a doctor, ate at a small table, spooning a bowl of soup, the steam fogging his steel-rimmed glasses; the dog lay beside him as if they were old friends.

When Orville stopped at the cash register he counted clumsily, thinking in terms of dollars: he was pleased, as he fumbled with the bills, that Claude had provided him with so much. The waitress noticed his crammed billfold, cupped her chin in one hand, and smiled as if the francs had appreciative eyes.

"Do you have a room?"

"For tonight?"

"Yes, tonight."

"I think so ... just a moment, I'll make sure."

She spoke to someone at the rear, someone in the kitchen, and bounced back, and grinned a soft, calculating grin.

"There's one," she said. "I'll show you. Come." And she kicked the dog as she walked away from the register.

Orville followed her through a narrow hall. Walls and doors were wood--all painted grey.

"It's on the top floor. I guess you don't mind."

"I don't mind," he said.

As she climbed a second flight he admired her legs, no rustic hair, smooth; her loose shoes sucked at her heels, making a pleasant sound. They climbed another flight.

"Ssss ... it's quite a way," she said, puffing a little. "Here ... here's the room."

Jiggling her keys she opened the door: messy luggage cluttered a corner, the bed was unmade, its sheets and cover scrambled. Pointing to the luggage, she said:

"The room belongs to a teacher, but he's gone for several days. I'll make up the bed, fix the room, clean it ... I was supposed to have it ready. Shall I fix it for you? It's twenty francs."

Rain had stained ceiling and walls. The floor was warped and window frames were warped. The ceiling seemed to dip toward the two windows. Someone had soiled the bedside rug.

Orville disliked the room, hated himself.

"Fix it," he ordered.

Perched on a chair, he watched her remove the luggage and change the sheets. She was silent, quick motioned, angry at this late hour job; she was scheming how she could latch onto some of his money by sleeping with him.

She spread fresh sheets ...

"I washed them yesterday ... they're dry," she said.

He said nothing, admiring her as he would admire an animal: bitch spreading sheets and cover.

"There," she sighed, settling the pillow.

As she straightened up, her arm bumped the crucifix on the wall by the bed; it rocked back and forth with a dry sound; with a frown she steadied it, but, as she steadied it, he felt she was waiting for a proposition.

"I'm with the Maquis," he lied. "I go into Germany tomorrow ... parachute drop ... How about sleeping with me tonight? I'll pay you two hundred francs."

"I'll come," she said. "I'll come later on ... I'll sneak you whiskey..." She had a huge smile: two hundred francs, Jesus, the man was crazy!

"Okay," he said.

"There's work to do ... some late customers ... I'll be late."

"Okay."

Like a drugged man he sat down, unlaced his shoes, lay down, and peered at the wall. He did not bother to take off his jacket. He stretched out on the cover ... and was asleep instantly. Just before he dropped off he felt the bed sink on one side; he reached for the tank controls and heard a shell explode in the distance; he was falling ...

The flash of a table lamp woke him and he propped himself on an elbow and tried to recall where he was.

"What is it?" he managed. "Who is it?"

"It's me ... Suzanne."

"Oh."

She was carrying a hooded teapot, cups, a plate of cheese and bread on a tray. She set the tray on the bed and Orville blinked at it. The smell of the cheese helped him wake up. While she was arranging the cups and teapot, he shed his jacket. As she poured his cup, she explained that the whiskey was locked up: It's very late ... I don't have the key.

"It's about two o'clock," she said, and couldn't think of anything more to say she was so tired. Now she worried that he might refuse to pay her, or pay for the room.

"You work late," he said.

"Yes ... but not every night."

"Hungry?"

"Not much ... you fell asleep."

"Umm ... I did."

"Where are you from? ... You can tell me."

"I was born here."

"In Ermenonville?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

He observed her bloodshot eyes, and remembering that he had been asleep, he put his hand on his billfold: it was there.

He appraised Suzanne's body as he gulped the tea, needing the warmth to warm him ...

Jeannette was on duty ... the Rondes were in Senlis ... Lena was buried ... he ate a little cheese and finished the cup and pushed the tray away and began yanking off his shirt and trousers, troubled by the buttons and zipper.

"Have more to eat," he said.

"A little cheese," she said, hoping tea and cheese would lessen her weariness.

Before Suzanne yanked out the lamp plug, she encouraged him to see her nakedness: she placed the food tray on the wash stand; she combed her hair before the bureau mirror: she shook her hair over her shoulders. Her breasts were plump and rosy. She had rose nipples. Her belly was a working woman's belly: she was strong. Standing with her legs tantalizingly apart, fluffing her hair, she dabbed cologne on her shoulders. Not a word.

Darkness, and then a small light, a lamppost outside the inn, revealed the wash stand and the brass bedposts--making them unreal.

The bed squeaked as Suzanne climbed in, hands and arms ready for him, mouth ready for him, her fatigue momentarily aside. She had difficulty arousing him; she wanted him right away; she was too tired for play; she scolded him and punched him with both knees; she muttered angrily.

"Come on, come on ... wake up ... I want that money ... you think I'm a slut ... I need money. You..."

She kicked him.

Disgusted with her, disappointed with himself, angry, he straightened her on the bed, slapped her across the face. Lying on top of her, weighing her down, he fucked her, she was tight, tough, skilled, peasant. Her mouth was slippery--big. He slapped it hard. Then again.

As his hate diminished, as he lay there, tired, fighting his sex guilt, he wished he could infect her. If she did not have syphilis he wanted to give it to her. It would leave her something to remember the war by. Then, he realized she could be cured easily, through penicillin. So, it did not matter. If she infected him ... that did not matter. Nothing mattered.

All this was worse than masturbation in a stalled tank.

His mind returned to the machines: the tanks were crawling through a dense mist, one bus behind the other, guided by a GI flashlight, a green dot, a blinking dot ...

In the morning, roosters woke him and he slipped out of bed before Suzanne woke; as soon as he was dressed he pulled out his billfold and left her 220 francs, on the food tray, between cheese and bread ... Suzanne ... farm girl ...

She would be pleased to find him gone--everything easy. Standing by the door, he ate a piece of bread: what if she became pregnant, was the thought and the bread tasted sour: and that girl in the hospital, what about her, what about her possible pregnancy?

Stealthily, he unlatched and squeezed through the doorway, no one awake: walking through the hall and descending the stairs was like passing through a packing box. As he neared Ermenonville, the sun yellowed the ground. In the Ronde kitchen, Annette was busy, her coffee smelling up the room.

"Good morning ... You're up early," she said cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?"

"Good morning ... mind if I have a cup of coffee?"

"I'll be glad to ... coffee and croissant ... in the dining room?"

"In the living room, Annette."

He had made up his mind: he was leaving by bus: Paris: bus to Moire: then rejoin the Corps. Gulping his coffee he told his future to go to hell. But there was something in the coffee, in the taste and smell of it, that tied in with the antiquity of the room, his past, the Chopin bust that was watching, mistrusting him. A second cup. And the coffee brought to mind the room where he had been born ... voices ... faces. It seemed to him he heard his mother. Smoking a cigarette, he wandered about, annoyed by the fireless fireplaces and their sense of accusation.

A copy of _Combat_ lay on a chair: in a matter of hours life would become combat: soon life would be a thing of the past, like a newspaper, like a comic strip. The cat would jump off the sofa and disappear forever. The skull would revolve round and round inside the tank helmet.

He was dressing in his greasy mechanic's clothes when Jean appeared.

"Orville," she said, scared. "Orville."

She had never seen his face so tragic.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"I'm leaving ... you know I had to go ... tomorrow anyway."

"Claude phoned me ... he said ... why?..."

"Why," he repeated, without making it an interrogation, and glared at her.

She perched on the foot of his bed and her raincoat fell away from her shoulders, pinioning her hands. Her cheeks, flushed by cold and anxiety, were red.

"Talk to me," she said.

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm wearing these filthy clothes ... I have my ID ... I'll get to Paris on the bus ... there are fewer checks by the Moire route ... so..." Leaning against his chest-of-drawers, he hunted through his pockets for his lighter: no, it was in his jacket. His fingers touched his jackknife. The feel of it helped. "It's quite simple," he said. "I can't go on with you. I slept with a girl last night at an inn. It's back to the Corps. I'm trapped. I haven't guts enough to desert, so ... at the best ... we had two days..."

Jeannette rubbed her face and rubbed her hand over her eyes; she remembered crude things Orville had said; her love for him had died down, then welled up; she held out her lighter as he continued poking-poking through his pockets.

"Here, Orv..."

As he bent over the flame she said:

"I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you."

"It wasn't that." Or was it?

"What was it then?"

"I ... I have to go ... I..."

"I love you," she said.

"But I can't love you," he protested.

"Are you ill?"

"Perhaps ... another time ... maybe the war will end ... who knows what is going to happen!" He stifled a desire to say that he had a premonition of tragedy--that was nothing new in his life.

"You told me you loved me, Orv."

"I wasn't lying."

She wanted to repeat: but what happened? She knew better than repeat that question; she knew, from those hospitalized victims, from their bitterness, their profanity, their cruelty, their shrivelled minds and bodies, something of what it was that was obsessing Orville. She picked up a shirt, placed it over the back of a chair.

"Let me fold your things ... let me help."

"I'm putting things away ... in my chest-of-drawers ... hanging up things, as they were."

She was hopeful he might return; she began to sob; life was being ripped away; her fingers trembled as she laid a folded shirt in a drawer: he was leaving his home, leaving his birthplace, leaving his Ermenonville; she tried to include herself in the picture. Throwing her arms around him she kissed him again and again.

"I'll try to write to you," he said, each word coming out hard.

"Letters," she whispered, "letters ... we're not much good at letters ... how can you reach me ... how can I reach you?"

Was the fishing line on the two reels still damp?

When was it they had gone fishing together--years ago?

Crossing France was going to be difficult, contacting the Corps was going to be difficult.

His arm around Jeannette, facing the window, he gazed down on the lawn: Annette was entering the house, carrying Lena's angora, Rene.

A door banged, and Claude's voice echoed.

* * *

*5*

Dennison rejoined his Corps.

Their third offensive started during a heavy fog ... the tanks rolled forward slowly ...

Something red appeared and then faded almost at once; a rumbling sound was connected with the color and there was something else, some kind of motion.

Dennison tried to turn over on his side but pain knocked him out, and then the red flopped on again, floating, jelly-fishing. He tried to speak. Something prevented him. What was happening? Then, the red shaped itself into something, a wedge, a fuzzy glow, then became glass in a stained glass window.

Now he realized that he was lying in an ambulance; the window was swaying as the ambulance swayed. He recognized the sound of tires, the sound of a heavy duty motor.

Presently, the ambulance came to a stop and a man's voice droned, words confused with other sounds, motors, shouts.

Was this a convoy? Were they caught in a stream of traffic? Were they in a town? What caused the light through the window? Was it daylight? He broke into a sweat. How long had he been riding?

Inching to one side, he peered at a tiny light bulb, its filament a hairpin of orange between litter-bunks. A man just below had his arm flung out: someone must be fastened to that arm. The ambulance began to creep forward and the wounded man's fingers began to clench ... then pain galled Dennison.

He longed for a drink of water more than anything. He was sure that a drink would check the pain and ease the ride.

God, he worried, where's my dog tag?

Is this a German rig?

Have the goddamn Nazis got me?

When the ambulance stopped, Dennison was able to distinguish a cross in the window glass: the red cross was pale, old. Did German ambulances have red crosses? Voices sounded outside: German, French, English? Men were snoring in the bunks around him. Pushing himself to the side, he peered down angrily.

"Where are we?" he demanded.

No answer.

A bandaged foot protruded across the feebly lit aisle; the bulbous white mass shook, as if trying to reply.

"Hey, down there! Whose ambulance is this?" he yelled. He tried English, French, German.

As though on a crane, the foot lifted, swung onto the litter: a pool of blood trembled on the floor as the ambulance moved on. Dennison beat against the wall and then the ceiling. He was soaked with sweat. The exertion made him shake but he continued beating until his fist stung and his head and arm ached. As he lay there, breathing hard, breathing fast, someone asked:

"What can I do for you?"

"Man, talk to me ... where am I?"

The fellow had spoken French: did that mean anything?

Dennison peered at a tousled head, a pair of dirty glasses on a beaked nose, a stubbled, dirty face. The dirty face grinned pleasantly. Dennison liked the mottled teeth and purple lips.

"You're okay. Take it easy, huh? Did you think we was Nazis? Nah! Lie back! Rest. I'll bring you dope ... we'll soon be at the Fournier Hospital, in Rethel ... soon ... do you hear? It's Catholic. Clean. Be there soon. Lie down..."

Reassured, Dennison lay back.

"Just some water ... just some water..."

"Okay."

Things blurred.

"Now, here, swallow the dope..."

"Sure ... a little more water ... gotta have water..."

"Okay."

Pain wormed in his arm and shoulder, and he wondered what had occurred. What had become of the tank? What had happened to Zinc and Landel? The last thing he remembered ... pain was burning closer, closer, closer ... Fingering his bandages, he poked at several wooden splints and tried to gauge the extent of his injury. Thinking to push back his hair, he felt a skull bandage; a sling was looped around his neck. His fingers traced the folds of the sling.

What the hell did that mean?

Both head and arm!

So I got hit two ways! God ... dammit!

The ambulance was swaying. Huddled under his blankets, Dennison recalled a face, a blonde face, a blonde face beside a chest-of-drawers ... that, that was Ermenonville ... that was ... In London, Jeannette had said ... Zinc had told him that ... and the fog, the heavy river fog and the heavy shelling ... somebody was ...

With the ambulance door open, he caught a whiff of fresh air, the air entering like something solid; leaning over, toward the edge of the bunk, he listened:

A snarling voice was saying something about the railroad: the railroad had been bombed ... no way to transfer wounded ... trucks were being used ... ambulances ...

"Have to get them out ... out of the city ... air raids ... no food. Two men have died in our ambulance. We picked up an American, he speaks French ... Have to find gasoline. On the train we had food..."

Windows and plasma and click of wheels, windows and plasma, a doctor bending over, when was this, where? Someone had fed him. The clicking of wheels bugged him.

The man with the beaked nose and dirty eyeglasses brought Dennison a glass of pineapple juice--astonishingly good! As the man held the glass and straw the ambulance motor coughed, the juice spilled, the beaked nose swayed and almost fell.

"What a lousy road!"

Dennison tried to raise his right arm ... yes, the right arm, the arm in the sling ... they were moving again.

Pain closed in.

In mid-morning, Dennison bumped out of the ambulance into a windy sun. Within seconds someone spread additional blankets over him. He was babied by someone tall and grey eyed. Rubber wheels hissed. The sky swayed. Other Sisters-of-Charity appeared: the gurney tilted, the sky tilted: door after door whirled by.

Very soon he realized he was inside a room: its all-around whiteness assured him: he shut his eyes, longing for a sense of stability.

Morning moved into afternoon.

Afternoon moved into pain.

The probing of the arm began: two doctors, a surgeon, two nurses--a Sister Blanche attended Orville; his mind screwed up to a pitch and then blacked out. There were x-rays, painful shiftings of the body: his brain shut down again and again: then, the radiologist began talking; he had to have time for his pipe; then Dr. Pierre Phelan, the surgeon, spoke through his gauze mask. In Dennison's eyes Phelan's eyes were the eyes of cruelty, eyes inside a mask. Phelan outlined techniques for the two doctors. Now they were in surgery. Phelan was talking to a British medic. The Britisher was having a miserable time with his French. Egged on by pain, Dennison attacked Phelan, accusing him of carelessness, army bungling, come-easy-victims, goddamn sadism.

"I've been a surgeon for twenty-odd years, my boy. I've a sort of built-in skill. Not easy to shake that skill. Besides, let's skip that. You see, Dennison, there is no alternative! You've lost nerve ends. The brachi- and pronator teres and humerus are badly damaged..."

"I want to see my arm," Dennison objected.

"Lie still."

"Get me a mirror!" He was hollering. He tried to control his voice: he was being womanish. "Give me a mirror, damn you ... I want to see my arm."

"If I thought it would help you I'd let you see your arm. My boy, you can't tell one bone from another, one muscle from another. Even our radiographs can't help you."

The Britisher, a tall young man, a Londoner, was sympathetic: putting his hand on Orville's good arm he begged him to trust Phelan:

"Be reasonable ... try to be reasonable. My god, you think we want your smashed arm? What will we do with it? Can we sell it?" Realizing that his humor was crude, he added: "Easy, Orville ... we're looking after you ... believe in us."

"It's not your amputation," snarled Dennison.

Turning to Sister Blanche, Dr. Phelan ordered her to jot down notes: notations about the skull x-rays, the arm, wrist, and hand radiographs: he dictated in a Midi-voice, a tired, harsh, old voice.

Dennison attempted to follow the medical terminology, still unconvinced.

"What about my head injury?" he asked.

"You mean, what's wrong?"

"What happened ... nobody has explained."

"It's a combination of severe bruises and a scalp wound ... not serious, Monsieur. Lucky there. We're certain about those injuries. Confident." Phelan clicked his pen against the side of the examination table. "Trust is what you lack ... cover him nurse. Don't you see he's shivering!"

Dennison felt himself roll with pain.

So the shelling had gotten his arm!

It was lying there beside him, and he was powerless to move it: smashed bones, shredded flesh, stinking flesh ... that's how it was! Still he wanted to see his arm and attempted to turn his head, his mind at loose ends: but he was being wheeled on the gurney; he sank into his pillow, moaning.

"I can't go through life without an arm," he said to the nurse as he rolled through a hallway. "I can't..."

Back in his room, he called Sister Blanche to his side.

"Wait a few days ... give me a chance."

"We don't dare wait," she replied.

"Another day..."

"That would double the danger."

"I don't believe it."

"You must believe in us," she said, fixing his covers, adjusting his bed, understanding and love obvious in her face.

"It's my arm ... mine ... it's mine."

Dr. Phelan appeared.

"We have reviewed the x-rays ... it's conclusive, my boy. It's surgery. Later, when it's all over, I'll do a detailed drawing for you."

Later, he rechecked the injury, gauze mask over his face: he probed, hating the stench, examining, re-examining tissue, bone; he checked potential bleeding, planning his surgery.