Прощай, оружие!

Chapter 8

           "See?"

           IputmySaintAnthonybackinthecapsule,spilledthethingoldchaintogetherandputitallinmybreastpocket.

           "Youdon’twearhim?"

           "No."

           "It’sbettertowearhim.That’swhatit’sfor."

           "Allright,"Isaid.Iundidtheclaspofthegoldchainandputitaroundmyneckandclaspedit.ThesainthungdownontheoutsideofmyuniformandIundidthethroatofmytunic,unbuttonedtheshirtcollaranddroppedhiminundertheshirt.Ifelthiminhismetalboxagainstmychestwhilewedrove.ThenIforgotabouthim.AfterIwaswoundedIneverfoundhim.Someoneprobablygotitatoneofthedressingstations.

           Wedrovefastwhenwewereoverthebridgeandsoonwesawthedustoftheothercarsaheaddowntheroad.Theroadcurvedandwesawthethreecarslookingquitesmall,thedustrisingfromthewheelsandgoingoffthroughthetrees.Wecaughtthemandpassedthemandturnedoffonaroadthatclimbedupintothehills.DrivinginconvoyisnotunpleasantifyouarethefirstcarandIsettledbackintheseatandwatchedthecountry.Wewereinthefoothillsonthenearsideoftheriverandastheroadmountedtherewerethehighmountainsofftothenorthwithsnowstillonthetops.Ilookedbackandsawthethreecarsallclimbing,spacedbytheintervaloftheirdust.Wepassedalongcolumnofloadedmules,thedriverswalkingalongbesidethemuleswearingredfezzes.Theywerebersaglieri.

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