ACROSS the RIVER and INTO the TREES by ERNEST HEMINGWAY

“That river sure doesn’t look anything like the Rapido.”

“It was a pretty good old river,” the Colonel said. “Up above, it had plenty of water then, before all these hydro­electric projects. And it had very deep and tricky chan­nels in the pebbles and shingle when it was shallow. There was a place called the Grave de Papadopoli where it was plenty tricky.”

He knew how boring any man’s war is to any other man, and he stopped talking about it. They always take it personally, he thought No one is interested in it, abstractly, except soldiers and there are not many soldiers. You make them and the good ones are killed, and above they are always bucking for something so hard they never look or listen. They are always thinking of what they have seen and while you are talking they are think­ing of what they will say and what it may lead to in their advancement or their privilege. There was no sense bor­ing this boy, who, for all his combat infantryman badge, his Purple Heart and the other things he wore, was in no sense a soldier but only a man placed, against his will, in uniform, who had elected to remain in the army for his own ends.

“What did you do in civil life, Jackson?” he asked.

“I was partners with my brother in a garage in Rawlins, Wyoming, sir.”

“Are you going back there?”

“My brother got killed in the Pacific and the guy who was running the garage was no good,” the driver said. “We lost what we had put in it.”

“That’s bad,” the Colonel said.

“You’re God-damned right it’s bad,” the driver said and added, “sir.”

The Colonel looked up the road.

He knew that if they kept on this road they would come, shortly, to the turn that he was waiting for; but he was impatient.

“Keep your eyes open and take a left hand turn on the road leading off this pike,” he told the driver.

“Do you think those low roads will be good with this big car, sir?”

“We’ll see,” the Colonel said. “Hell, man, it hasn’t rained in three weeks.”

“I don’t trust those side roads in this low country.”

“If we get stuck, I’ll haul you out with oxen.”

“I was only thinking about the car, sir.”

“Well, think about what I told you and turn off on the first left side road you see if it looks practicable.”

“That looks like one coming up, from the hedges,” the driver said.

“You’re all clear behind. Pull up just ahead of it and I’ll go over and have a look.”

He stepped out of the car and walked across the wide, hard-surfaced road and looked at the narrow dirt road, with the swift flowing canal beside it, and the thick hedge beyond. Beyond the hedge, he saw a low red farm­house with a big barn. The road was dry. There were not even cart ruts sunk in it. He got back into the car.

“It’s a boulevard,” he said. “Quit worrying.”

“Yes, sir. It’s your car, sir.”

“I know,” the Colonel said. “I’m still paying for it. Say, Jackson, do you always suffer so much any time you go off a highway onto a secondary road?”

“No, sir. But there’s a lot of difference between a jeep, and a car as low hung as this. Do you know the clearance you have on your differential and your body frame on this?”

“I’ve got a shovel in the trunk and we’ve got chains. Wait till you see where we’re going after we leave Venice,”

“Do we go all the way in this car?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see.”

“Think about your fenders, sir.”

“We’ll cut the fenders off like the Indians do in Okla­homa. She’s over-fendered right now. She’s got too much of everything except engine. Jackson, that’s a real engine she’s got. One hundred and fifty ponies.”

“It certainly is, sir. It’s a great pleasure to drive that big engine on the good roads. That’s why I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

“That’s very good of you, Jackson. Now just quit suffering.”

“I’m not suffering, sir.”

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