The Skin (21 page)

It was a horrible silence—a vast, chilling, deathly silence, the silence of snow.

The doctor approached me with a syringe in his hand. "Before we operate on them," he said, "we cut their vocal cords."

*       *       *       *

I awoke, dripping with sweat. I went to the window and looked at the houses, the sea, the sky above the hill of Posillipo, the island of Capri drifting on the horizon in the pink haze of dawn. I had recognized the voice—the black voice—of the wind. I dressed hastily, sat down on the edge of the bed, and waited. I knew that I was waiting for something sad and painful to happen: some sad and painful experience was coming to me, and I could not prevent it.

At about six o'clock a jeep stopped under my window, and I heard a knock at the door. It was Lieutenant Campbell, of the P.B.S. During the night a telephone message had arrived from General Headquarters at Caserta instructing me to go and join Colonel Jack Hamilton outside Cassino. It was already late, and we had to start at once. I threw my haversack across my shoulder, put my arm through the sling of my tommy-gun, and leapt into the jeep.

Campbell was a tall, fair-haired young man; he had blue eyes, flecked with white. I had accompanied him to the front on various occasions, and liked him for his smiling nonchalance and his noble bearing in the hour of danger. He was a sad boy, a native of Wisconsin, and perhaps he already knew that he would never return home, that he would be killed by a mine a few months later on the road between Bologna and Milan, two days before the end of the war. He talked little, he was shy, and he blushed when he spoke.

Immediately after crossing the bridge at Capua we met the first convoys of wounded. These were the days of the futile, bloody assaults on the German defences at Cassino. Presently we entered the battle-zone. Heavy missiles were falling on Via Casilina, and the din was terrific. At the check-point two miles from the outskirts of Cassino a sergeant in the Military Police stopped us and made us shelter under an embankment while we waited for the storm of shells to subside.

But time was passing, and it was getting late. In order to reach the artillery observation-post where Colonel Jack Hamilton was awaiting us we decided to leave Via Casilina and drive through the fields, where the hail of missiles was less concentrated. "Good luck!" said the M.P. sergeant.

Campbell drove the jeep into the ditch and climbed the embankment at the side of the road. He then began to crawl up a stony slope, through the vast olive-plantation which sprawls among the barren knolls on the far side of the hills that face Cassino. Several other jeeps had passed that way before us, and the impressions of their wheels on the ground were still fresh. In some places, where the soil was of clay, the wheels of our jeep revolved furiously and ineffectually, and we had to thread our way very slowly between the large boulders that blocked our ascent.

Suddenly, ahead of us, in a hollow between two bare ridges, we saw a fountain of earth and stones shoot into the air, and the dull crump of an explosion reverberated from hill to hill. "A mine," said Campbell, who was trying to follow the wheel-tracks so as to avoid the danger of mines, which were very numerous in that area. Presently we heard voices and groans, and through the olive trees, a hundred yards ahead, we distinguished a group of men gathered round an overturned jeep. Another jeep stood a little way away, its front wheels smashed by the blast from the mine.

Two wounded American soldiers were sitting on the grass, while others were attending to a man who was lying face upwards on the ground. The soldiers looked contemptuously at my uniform, and one of them, a sergeant, said to Campbell: "What the hell's he doing here, this bastard?"

"A.F.H.Q.," answered Campbell. "Italian liaison officer."

"Get out," said the sergeant, turning brusquely in my direction. "Make room for the wounded man."

"What's the matter with him?" I asked, jumping out of the jeep.

"He's wounded in the stomach. He must be taken to hospital at once."

"Let me see him," I said.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, I'm not a doctor," I said, and I bent over the wounded man.

He was a fair-haired, slim young man, almost a lad, with a boyish face. There was an enormous hole in his stomach, and from it protruded his intestines; they were slowly oozing down his legs and coiling themselves into a big bluish heap between his knees.

"Give me a blanket," I said.

A soldier brought me a blanket, and I spread it over the wounded man's stomach. Then I took the sergeant aside and told him that the wounded man could not be removed, that it was better not to touch him but to leave him where he was, and meanwhile to send Campbell in the jeep to fetch a doctor.

"I was in the other war," I said. "I've seen dozens and dozens of wounds like this, and there's nothing one can do. They are mortal wounds. Our only concern must be not to let him suffer. If we take him to hospital he will die on the way in frightful agony. It's better to let him die where he is, without suffering. There's nothing else we can do."

The soldiers had gathered round us and were gazing at me in silence.

Campbell said: "The Captain is right. I'll go to Capua to fetch a doctor, and I'll take the two walking cases with me."

"We can't leave him here," said the sergeant. "They may be able to operate on him at the hospital. We can do nothing for him here. It's a crime to let him die."

"He'll suffer frightful agony, and he'll die before he reaches hospital," I said. "Do as I say—let him stay where he is and don't touch him."

"You aren't a doctor," said the sergeant.

"I'm not a doctor," I said, "but I know what the trouble is. I've seen dozens and dozens of soldiers with stomach-wounds. I know that they mustn't be touched and that they can't be removed. Let him die in peace. Why do you want to make him suffer?"

The soldiers stared at me and were silent. The sergeant said: "We can't let him die like that—like a beast."

"He won't die like a beast," I said. "He'll fall asleep like a child, painlessly. Why do you want to make him suffer? He'll die just the same, even if he reaches the hospital alive. Have confidence in me —let him stay where he is, don't make him suffer. The doctor will come, and he'll say that I was right."

"Let's go," said Campbell, turning to the wounded men.

"Wait a moment, Lieutenant," said the sergeant. "You're an American officer, it's up to you to decide. In any case you are a witness that if the boy dies it won't be our fault. It'll be the fault of this Italian officer."

"I don't think it'll be his fault," said Campbell. "I'm not a doctor, I don't know anything about wounds, but I know this Italian Captain and I know he's an excellent fellow. How can it be to his advantage to advise us not to take this poor boy to hospital? If he advises us to leave him here I consider that we should have confidence in him and follow his advice. He isn't a doctor, but he has more experience of war and wounds than we have." And turning to me he added: "Are you prepared to accept the responsibility for not having this poor boy taken to hospital?"

"Yes," I answered, "I assume the entire responsibility for not having him removed to hospital. Since he has to die, it's better that he should die without suffering."

"That's all," said Campbell. "And now let's go."

The two walking cases leapt into Campbell's jeep, which set off down the stony slope and very soon disappeared among the olive trees.

The sergeant gazed at me in silence for some moments, his eyes half-closed. Then he said: "And now? What do we have to do?"

"We must amuse that poor boy—entertain him, tell him some stories, leave him no time to reflect that he's mortally wounded or to realize that he's dying."

"Tell him some stories?" said the sergeant.

"Yes, tell him some funny stories, keep him happy. If you leave him time to reflect he'll realize that he's mortally wounded and he'll feel bad, he'll suffer."

"I don't like play-acting," said the sergeant. "We aren't Italian bastards, we aren't comedians. If you want to act the buffoon, go ahead. But if Fred dies, you'll answer for it to me."

"Why do you insult me?" I said. "It isn't my fault if I'm not a thoroughbred like all Americans ... or like all Germans. I've already told you the poor boy will die—but he won't suffer. I'll be responsible to you for his sufferings, but not for his death."

"O.K.," said the sergeant. And turning to the others, who had listened to me in silence with their eyes glued upon me, he added. "You are all witnesses. This dirty Italian maintains . . ."

"Shut up!" I cried. "That's enough of these stupid insults! Have you come to Europe to insult us or to fight the Germans?"

"Instead of that poor American boy," said the sergeant, half-closing his eyes and clenching his fists, "it ought to be one of you. Why don't you chase the Germans out by yourselves?"

"Why didn't you stay at home? No one asked you to come. You ought to have let us fight it out with the Germans ourselves."

"Take it easy," said the sergeant with an unpleasant laugh. "You Europeans are no good, the only thing you're good for is to die of hunger."

All the others began to laugh, and they looked at me.

"We certainly aren't well enough to be heroes like you," I said. "But I'm here with you, I'm running the same risks as you. Why do you insult me?"

"Bastard nation," said the sergeant.

"A fine nation of heroes you are," I said. "It's only taken ten German soldiers and a corporal to keep you at bay for the last three months."

"Shut up!" cried the sergeant, taking a step towards me.

The wounded man uttered a groan, and we all turned.

"He's suffering," said the sergeant, turning pale.

"Yes," I said, "he's suffering. He's suffering, and it's our fault. He's ashamed of us. Instead of helping him, here we are covering each other with insults. But I know why you're insulting me. It's because you are suffering. I'm sorry about some of the things I've said to you. Don't you think I'm suffering too?"

"Don't worry, Captain," said the sergeant with a shy smile, and he flushed slightly.

"Hello, boys!" said the wounded man, raising himself on to his elbows.

"He's jealous of you," I said, indicating the sergeant. "He wishes he was wounded like you, so that he could go back home."

"It's a gross injustice!" cried the sergeant, slapping his chest. "Why should you go back home to America, and not us?"

The wounded man smiled. "Home," he said.

"In a little while the ambulance will come," I said, "and take you to the hospital in Naples. And in a couple of days you'll be off to America by air. You really are a lucky chap!"

"It's a gross injustice," said the sergeant. "You'll go home, and we shall stay here and rot. That's what'll happen to all of us if we stay just a little longer in bloody Cassino!" And bending down he picked up a large handful of mud, rubbed it into his face, rumped his hair with both hands, and began pulling faces. The group of soldiers all laughed, and the wounded man smiled.

"But the Italians will come and take our place," said a soldier, stepping forward, "and we shall go home." And stretching out his hand he seized my cap, which had a long black plume, signifying that I was an officer in the Alpine Regiment, jammed it on his head and began jumping about in front of the wounded man, pulling faces and shouting: "Vino! Spaghetti! Signorina!"

"Go on!" cried the sergeant, giving me a push.

I blushed. It was distasteful to me to act the clown. But I had to play my part in the game. It was I who had suggested the idea of this sad comedy, and I could not refuse now to act the clown. If it had been a question of acting the clown in order to save my country, or humanity, or freedom, I should have refused. All we Europeans know that there are hundreds of ways of acting the clown. Acting the hero, the coward, the traitor, the revolutionary, the saviour of one's country, the martyr in the cause of freedom—even these are forms of clowning. Even putting a man against a wall and shooting him in the stomach, even losing or winning a war, are among the many forms that clowning can take. But I could not now refuse to act the clown when it was a question of helping a poor American boy to die painlessly. In Europe—let us be fair—one often has to act the clown for reasons much less compelling! And after all, this was a noble and generous reason for acting the clown, and I could not refuse: it was a question of preventing a man from suffering. I would eat earth, chew stones, swallow dung, betray my mother, just to help a man, or an animal, not to suffer. I am not afraid of death. I do not hate it, it does not repel me. Fundamentally, it does not concern me. But suffering I do hate, and I hate the suffering of others —men or animals—more than my own. I am ready for anything, ready to perform any act of cowardice, any act of heroism, just to prevent a human being from suffering, just to help a man not to suffer, to die painlessly. And so, although I felt the colour rising to my temples, I was glad to be able to act the clown, not, indeed, for the sake of my country, or of humanity, or of national honour, or of glory, or of freedom, but for my own sake—so that I might help a poor boy not to suffer, to die painlessly.

"Chewing-gum! Chewing-gum!" I shouted, and I began jumping about in front of the wounded man. I grimaced, pretending that I was chewing an enormous piece of gum, that my jaws were stuck together by its twisted strands, that I could not open my mouth, or breathe, or speak, or spit. At last, after many efforts, I succeeded in disengaging my jaws, opening my mouth and uttering a shout of triumph: "Spam! Spam!" The ejaculation, which conjured up a picture of that frightful imitation pork which is known as spam— the pride of Chicago and the habitual and universally detested food of American soldiers—provoked a general outburst of laughter, and even the wounded man smilingly repeated "Spam! Spam!"

In a sudden fit of frenzy, one and all began prancing about, waving their arms and pretending that their jaws were stuck together by twisted strands of chewing-gum and that they could not breathe or speak. Seizing their lower jaws with both hands they tried to force open their mouths; and I too pranced about, shouting "Spam! Spam!" in chorus with the others. Meanwhile, from the far side of the hill, came the fierce, hollow, monotonous, resonant
spam
!
spam
!
spam
! of the guns of Cassino.