“No, sir.”
“Well, it’s late,” Fisher said. “Maybe we better let someone else figure out how to proceed. From what I’ve read about them in the papers, he’s sure to hang regardless, isn’t he?”
“I expect so.”
Fisher yawned and stretched. “Good work, Sergeant. Good work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Malone said. He waited until the captain left, then went inside the infirmary and sat down in the hallway to wait and see how things turned out with the lieutenant. The man had damn near cried when he heard they might not get to the war for another five or six months, and then this morning, contrary to the rumors that had been circulating, Malone had found out that the 343rd would be shipping out for France sometime in November. Now the poor sonofabitch would never know what war felt like. Then again, maybe he already did; the day or so he spent chained in that maniac’s back room was probably as close to being horrific as anything he would have ever seen at the Front. The sergeant took another sip of the cold coffee, thought about all the men who’d voluntarily shot off their fingers and toes trying to get out of it.
An hour later, an orderly pushed Bovard out of the operating theater on a gurney and down the hall to a room. Eisner, the clap doctor, came out a minute or two later, and Malone asked him about the lieutenant’s condition. “Well, he’s suffered a serious shock, and there wasn’t anything to be done about the hand or the ear, but from what I’ve heard, it could have been a lot worse. My biggest concern is the risk of infection. A tavern is one of the worst places in the world for germs. Which reminds me, have you and your men washed up since you left that filthy hole?”
“Uh, well, we haven’t had—”
“I don’t understand you people,” Eisner said angrily. “Good hygiene is one of the most important keys to a long and happy life, and yet you refuse to embrace it.” Then he turned and stomped out of the building.
Malone walked down to the room where they’d taken Bovard. He stood in the doorway and looked in. A soft light burned in the far corner. Wesley Franks was sitting in a metal chair beside the lieutenant’s bed. He was talking softly to him and dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. “Has he said anything?” Malone asked.
“No, sir,” Wesley said. “They got him knocked out.”
Malone stepped into the room, moved up closer to the bed. The stub of Bovard’s left hand was wrapped with gauze, and another bandage covered his ear hole. A bit of bloody cotton was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Well, at least it wasn’t his right.”
“Sir?” Wesley said, squinting at the sergeant with his good eye.
“His hand. He’s right-handed, from what I remember.”
“Oh,” Wesley said. He dipped the cloth in a pan of water, then squeezed the excess out of it. “Do you think he’ll still be able to stay in the army, sir?”
Malone shook his head. “It’s doubtful.”
“That’s a shame,” Wesley said.
“Maybe,” Malone said, “maybe not. What if he went over there and got himself killed? At least this way he’s still walkin’ around on top of the ground.”
“Well…”
“Just like you, Franks. That Dear John letter you got may have saved your life in the long run.”
Wesley shook his head. He had been thinking a lot about what his shameful return home was going to be like; and he’d spent all day wishing he could just stay here in the infirmary forever. “I don’t know, sir,” he said to the sergeant. “I guess that all depends on what you think it’s worth.”
72