早晨我给隔壁花园里的炮队开炮吵醒了，看见阳光已从窗外进来，于是就起了床。我踱到窗边望出去。花园里的砂砾小径是潮湿的，草上也有露水。炮队开炮两次，每开一次，窗户震动，连我睡衣的胸襟也抖了一下。炮虽然看不见，但一听就知道是在我们上头开。炮队挨得这样近，相当讨厌，幸亏炮的口径并不太大。我望着外边花园时，听得见一部卡车在路上的开动声。我穿好衣服下楼，在厨房里喝了一点咖啡，便向汽车间走。有十部车子并排停在长长的车棚下。都是些上重下轻、车头短的救护车，漆成灰色，构造得像搬场卡车。机师们在场子里修理一部车子。还有三部车子则留在山峰间的包扎站。
“敌人向那炮队开过炮吗？”我问一位机师。
“没开过，中尉先生。有那座小山的掩护。”
“这里情形怎么样？”
“不太坏。这部车子不行，旁的都开得动。”他停住工作笑一笑。“你是休假才回来吧？”
“是的。”
他在罩衫上揩揩手，露齿而笑。“玩得好吗？”其余的机师都露齿而笑。
“好，”我说。“这车子怎么啦？”
“坏了。不是这个就是那个出毛病。”
“现在是什么毛病呢？”
“得换钢环。”
我由他们继续修理这部好不难看的空车，现在车子的引擎敞开着，零件散放在工作台上。我走到车棚底下，给每一部车子检查一下。车子相当干净，有几部刚刚洗过，其余的积满了尘埃。我细心看看车胎，看看有没有裂痕或是给石头划破的。一切情况相当满意。我人在不在这儿看管车子，显然没多大关系。我本来自以为很重要，车子的保养，物资的调配，从深山里的包扎站运回伤病员到医疗后送站，然后根据伤病员的病历卡，运送入医院，这一切顺利进行，大多是靠我一人。现在我才明白，有我没我并没有多大关系。
“配零件有什么困难没有？”我问那机械中士。
“没有困难，中尉先生。”
“现在油库在什么地方？”
“老地方。”
“好，”我说，回到屋子里，又上饭堂去喝一杯咖啡。咖啡淡灰色，甜甜的，因为冲着炼乳。窗外是一个可爱的春天早晨。鼻子里开始有一种干燥的感觉，这天天气一定会很热。这天我上山峰间去看看车站，回镇时已经很晚。
一切都很好，我人不在这儿，仿佛情形反而好一点。总攻击又要开始了，我听人家说。我们所属的那个师，将从河上游某地点进攻，少校叫我负责进攻时期的各救护车站。进攻部队将由上游一条窄峡上渡河，然后在山坡上扩大阵地。救护车的车站得尽量挨近河边，同时又要有天然的保障。车站地点当然是由步兵选定的，不过实际筹划执行，还得依靠我们。这样一来，我居然也有了布阵作战的错觉了。
我满身尘埃污秽，就上我房间去洗刷一下。雷那蒂坐在床上看《雨果氏英语语法》1。他穿戴好了，脚穿黑靴，头发亮光光的。“好极了，”他一看见我就说。“你陪我去见巴克莱小姐吧。”“不去。”
“要去。你得帮我给她一个好印象。”
“好吧。等我弄一弄干净。”
“洗一洗就行，用不着换衣服。”
我洗一洗，梳梳头，就跟他走。
“等一等，”雷那蒂说。“还是先喝一点才去吧。”他打开箱子，拿出一瓶酒来。
“别喝施特烈嘉，”我说。
“不。是格拉巴。2”“好吧。”
他倒了两杯酒，我们伸出了食指碰碰杯。酒性好凶。
“再来一杯？”
“好吧，”我说。我们喝了第二杯格拉巴，雷那蒂放好酒瓶，我们这才下楼。上街穿镇而走，本来是很热的，幸亏太阳开始下山，走来倒很愉快。英国医院设在一座德国人战前盖的大别墅里。巴克莱小姐在花园里。另外一位护士和她在一起。我们从树缝间望得见她们的白制服，于是朝她们走去。雷那蒂行了礼。我也行了礼，不过不像他那样过于殷勤。“你好，”巴克莱小姐说。“你不是意大利人吧？”
“噢，不是。”
雷那蒂在跟另外一位护士说话。他们在笑。
“你真怪，怎么进了意大利军队。”
“也不是真正的军队。只是救护车队罢了。”
“不过还是很怪。你为什么这样做？”
“我也不知道，”我说。“并不是每件事都有解释的。”
“噢，没有解释？我的教养却告诉我是应该有解释的。”
“那倒是怪舒服的。”
“我们非这么顶嘴不行吗？”
“可以不必，”我说。
“这样可松一口气。不是吗？”
“你那根东西是什么？”我问。巴克莱小姐长得相当高。她身上穿的好像是护士制服，金黄的头发，皮肤给阳光晒成黄褐色，灰色的眼睛。我认为她长得很美。她手里拿着一根细藤条，外边包了皮，看起来好像是小孩子玩的马鞭。
“这根东西的主人去年阵亡了。”
“非常抱歉，问得太冒昧了。”
“他是个很好的孩子。他本来要和我结婚，但他在索姆战役1中牺牲了。”
“那是一场可怕的恶战。”
“你也在场吗？”
“不。”
1 雨果语言学院设于伦敦，编有外国语速成法丛书多种，附设有外语函授班。
2 一种意大利白兰地。
1 索姆是法国北部河名，于1916 年和1918 年发生剧烈战役。这里指1916 年战役，英法联军初次运用新武器——坦克——进攻德军，以解除德军围攻凡尔登的压力。
“我也听人家说过，”她说。“这里可没有那样的恶战。他们把这根东西送来给我。是他母亲送来的。人家把他的东西送回家去。”
“你们俩订了婚多久？”
“八年。我们是一块儿长大的。”
“那你们为什么不结婚呢？”
“我不知道为什么，”她说。“当时我不结婚真傻。我本来迟早要给他的。不过当时我想，给他对于他反而不好。”
“原来如此。”
“你爱过人吗？”
“没有，”我说。我们在一条长凳上坐下，我看看她。
“你的头发长得很美，”我说。
“你喜欢吗？”
“很喜欢。”
“他死后我本想一刀剪掉。”
“那何苦呢。”
“我当时想为他做点什么。你知道，我对于那事情本来无所谓，他要，我都可以给。早知道的话，他要什么我什么都可以给他。这一切道理我现在才明白。但是他当时要去为国作战，而我又不明白这些道理。”我一句话都没有说。
“当时我什么都不懂。我以为给了他反而会害他。我以为给了他以后他会熬不住，后来他一死，什么都完了。”
“我不知道。”
“唉，完了，”她说。“什么都完了。”
我们望望雷那蒂，他和那护士在谈话。
“她叫什么？”
“弗格逊。海伦·弗格逊。你的朋友是位医生吧？”
“是的。他人很好。”
“那好极了。这么挨近前线，很难找到好人。我们是挨近前线的吧？”
“相当近了。”
“这是一条胡闹的战线，”她说。“但是风景很美。他们不是要发动总攻击吗？”
“是的。”
“那么我们就有事做了。现在没有工作。”
“你当护士好久了吧？”
“从一九一五年年底起。他一参军我就当护士。记得当时有一个傻念头，想象有一天他会到我的医院来。我想象是个刀伤，头上包着绷带。或是肩头中了枪。总是个有趣的场面。”
“这里倒是个有趣的前线，”我说。
“你说得对，”她说。“人家还不晓得法国是什么样子呢。一晓得的话，恐怕仗就打不下去了。他受的不是军刀砍伤。人家把他炸得粉碎。”我一声也不响。
“照你想，这战争永远打不完吗？”
“不会的。”
“有什么可以叫它停止呢？”
“总有个地方会撑不住的。”
“我们撑不住。我们在法国就撑不住。像索姆这样搞几次，就非垮不可。”
“这里不会垮的。”
“你这样想吗？”
“是的。他们今年夏天打得很不错。”
“他们可能垮的，”她说。“什么人都可能垮的。”
“德国人还不是一样。”
“不，”她说。“我可不这样想。”
我们向雷那蒂和弗格逊小姐那边走去。
“你爱意大利吗？”雷那蒂用英语问弗格逊小姐。
“相当爱。”
“不懂，”雷那蒂摇摇头。
我把“相当爱”译成意大利话。他还是摇头。
“这不行。你爱英格兰吗？”
“不怎么爱。你知道，我是苏格兰人。”
雷那蒂茫然看着我。
“她是苏格兰人，所以她爱苏格兰甚于英格兰，”我用意大利话说。“但是苏格兰正是英格兰啊。”
我把这句话翻译给弗格逊小姐听。
“还不好算，”弗格逊小姐说。
“真的？”
“从来不是。我们不喜欢英格兰人。”1“不喜欢英格兰人？不喜欢巴克莱小姐？”
“噢，这就不同了。你可别这样咬文嚼字。”隔了一会儿，我们说了晚安就分手了。在回家途中，雷那蒂说：“巴克莱小姐比较喜欢你，超过了我。这是很清楚的。那位苏格兰小姑娘可也很不错。”
“很不错，”我说。其实连她的人长得怎么样我都没有留心。“你喜欢她吗？”
“不，”雷那蒂说。
1 苏格兰人和爱尔兰人，因为受了英格兰人的并吞和压迫，在情感上始终有相当距离。
the battery in the next garden woke me in the morning and i saw the sun coming through the window and got out of the bed. i went to the window and looked out. the gravel paths were moist and the grass was wet with dew. the battery fired twice and the air came each time like a blow and shook the window and made the front of my pajamas flap. i could not see the guns but they were evidently firing directly over us. it was a nuisance to have them there but it was a comfort that they were no bigger. as i looked out at the garden i heard a motor truck starting on the road. i dressed, went downstairs, had some coffee in the kitchen and went out to the garage.
ten cars were lined up side by side under the long shed. they were top-heavy, blunt-nosed ambulances, painted gray and built like moving-vans. the mechanics were working on one out in the yard. three others were up in the mountains at dressing 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 italian army."
"it's not really the army. it's only the ambulance."
"it's very odd though. why did you do it?"
"i don't know," i said. "there isn't always an explanation for everything."
"oh, isn't there? i was brought up to think there was."
"that's awfully nice."
"do we have to go on and talk this way?"
"no," i said.
"that's a relief. isn't it?"
"what is the stick?" i asked. miss barkley was quite tall. she wore what seemed to me to be a nurse's uniform, was blonde and had a tawny skin and gray eyes. i thought she was very beautiful. she was carrying a thin rattan stick like a toy riding-crop, bound in leather.
"it belonged to a boy who was killed last year."
"i'm awfully sorry."
"he was a very nice boy. he was going to marry me and he was killed in the somme."
"it was a ghastly show."
"were you there?"
"no."
"i've heard about it," she said. "there's not really any war of that sort down here. they sent me the little stick. his mother sent it to me. they returned it with his things."
"had you been engaged long?"
"eight years. we grew up together."
"and why didn't you marry?"
"i don't know," she said. "i was a fool not to. i could have given him that anyway. but i thought it would be bad for him."
"i see."
"have you ever loved any one?"
"no," i said.
we sat down on a bench and i looked at her.
"you have beautiful hair," i said.
"do you like it?"
"very much."
"i was going to cut it all off when he died."
"no."
"i wanted to do something for him. you see i didn't care about the other thing and he could have had it all. he could have had anything he wanted if i would have known. i would have married him or anything. i know all about it now. but then he wanted to go to war and i didn't know."
i did not say anything.
"i didn't know about anything then. i thought it would be worse for him. i thought perhaps he couldn't stand it and then of course he was killed and that was the end of it."
"i don't know."
"oh, yes," she said. "that's the end of it."
we looked at rinaldi talking with the other nurse.
"what is her name?"
"ferguson. helen ferguson. your friend is a doctor, isn't he?"
"yes. he's very good."
"that's splendid. you rarely find any one any good this close to the front. this is close to the front, isn't it?"
"quite."
"it's a silly front," she said. "but it's very beautiful. are they going to have an offensive?"
"yes."
"then we'll have to work. there's no work now."
"have you done nursing long?"
"since the end of 'fifteen. i started when he did. i remember having a silly idea he might come to the hospital where i was. with a sabre cut, i suppose, and a bandage around his head. or shot through the shoulder. something picturesque."
"this is the picturesque front," i said.
"yes," she said. "people can't realize what france is like. if they did, it couldn't all go on. he didn't have a sabre cut. they blew him all to bits."
i didn't say anything.
"do you suppose it will always go on?"
"no."
"what's to stop it?"
"it will crack somewhere."
"we'll crack. we'll crack in france. they can't go on doing things like the somme and not crack."
"they won't crack here," i said.
"you think not?"
"no. they did very well last summer."
"they may crack," she said. "anybody may crack."
"the germans too."
"no," she said. "i think not."
we went over toward rinaldi and miss ferguson.
"you love italy?" rinaldi asked miss ferguson in english.
"quite well."
"no understand," rinaldi shook his head.
"abbastanza bene," i translated.
he shook his head.
"that is not good. you love england?"
"not too well. i'm scotch, you see."
rinaldi looked at me blankly.
"she's scotch, so she loves scotland better than england," i said in italian.
"but scotland is england."
i translated this for miss ferguson.
"pas encore," said miss ferguson.
"not really?"
"never. we do not like the english."
"not like the english? not like miss barkley?"
"oh, that's different. you mustn't take everything so literally."
after a while we said good-night and left. walking home rinaldi said, "miss barkley prefers you to me. that is very clear. but the little scotch one is very nice."
"very," i said. i had not noticed her. "you like her?"
"no," said rinaldi.
