A Farewell to Arms & For Whom the Bell Tolls. Ernest Hemingway

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 mustaches. He had been in the war in Libya and wore two wound-stripes. He said that if the thing went well he 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 getting 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 package of cigarettes, Macedonias, loosely packed cigarettes 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.”

      “I’ll 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 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 attack 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. “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 bayonet and nobody can come to see his mother and father and sisters and his father loses his civil rights and cannot 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 nobody 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. Evviva l’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 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 infantry.”

      “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 conquered 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 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, instead there is a war.”

      “You’re an orator.”

      “We