The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  The Paris part came earlier and he was not frightened of it except when she had gone off with some one else and the fear that they might take the same driver twice. That was what frightened about that. Never about the front. He never dreamed about the front now any more but what frightened him so that he could not get rid of it was that long yellow house and the different width of the river. Now he was back here at the river, he had gone through that same town, and there was no house. Nor was the river that way. Then where did he go each night and what was the peril, and why would he wake, soaking wet, more frightened than he had ever been in a bombardment, because of a house and a long stable and a canal?

  He sat up, swung his legs carefully down; they stiffened any time they were out straight for long; returned the stares of the adjutant, the signallers and the two runners by the door and put on his cloth-covered trench helmet.

  “I regret the absence of the chocolate, the postal-cards and cigarettes,” he said. “I am, however, wearing the uniform.”

  “The major is coming back at once,” the adjutant said. In that army an adjutant is not a commissioned officer.

  “The uniform is not very correct,” Nick told them. “But it gives you the idea. There will be several millions of Americans here shortly.”

  “Do you think they will send Americans down here?” asked the adjutant.

  “Oh, absolutely. Americans twice as large as myself, healthy, with clean hearts, sleep at night, never been wounded, never been blown up, never had their heads caved in, never been scared, don’t drink, faithful to the girls they left behind them, many of them never had crabs, wonderful chaps. You’ll see.”

  “Are you an Italian?” asked the adjutant.

  “No, American. Look at the uniform. Spagnolini made it but it’s not quite correct.”

  “A North or South American?”

  “North,” said Nick. He felt it coming on now. He would quiet down.

  “But you speak Italian.”

  “Why not? Do you mind if I speak Italian? Haven’t I a right to speak Italian?”

  “You have Italian medals.”

  “Just the ribbons and the papers. The medals come later. Or you give them to people to keep and the people go away; or they are lost with your baggage. You can purchase others in Milan. It is the papers that are of importance. You must not feel badly about them. You will have some yourself if you stay at the front long enough.”

  “I am a veteran of the Iritrea campaign,” said the adjutant stiffly. “I fought in Tripoli.”

  “It’s quite something to have met you,” Nick put out his hand. “Those must have been trying days. I noticed the ribbons. Were you, by any chance, on the Carso?”

  “I have just been called up for this war. My class was too old.”

  “At one time I was under the age limit,” Nick said. “But now I am reformed out of the war.”

  “But why are you here now?”

  “I am demonstrating the American uniform,” Nick said. “Don’t you think it is very significant? It is a little tight in the collar but soon you will see untold millions wearing this uniform swarming like locusts. The grasshopper, you know, what we call the grasshopper in America, is really a locust. The true grasshopper is small and green and comparatively feeble. You must not, however, make a confusion with the seven-year locust or cicada which emits a peculiar sustained sound which at the moment I cannot recall. I try to recall it but I cannot. I can almost hear it and then it is quite gone. You will pardon me if I break off our conversation?”

  “See if you can find the major,” the adjutant said to one of the two runners. “I can see you have been wounded,” he said to Nick.

  “In various places,” Nick said. “If you are interested in scars I can show you some very interesting ones but I would rather talk about grasshoppers. What we call grasshoppers that is; and what are, really, locusts. These insects at one time played a very important part in my life. It might interest you and you can look at the uniform while I am talking.”

  The adjutant made a motion with his hand to the second runner who went out.

  “Fix your eyes on the uniform. Spagnolini made it, you know. You might as well look, too,” Nick said to the signallers. “I really have no rank. We’re under the American consul. It’s perfectly all right for you to look. You can stare, if you like. I will tell you about the American locust. We always preferred one that we called the medium-brown. They last the best in the water and fish prefer them. The larger ones that fly making a noise somewhat similar to that produced by a rattlesnake rattling his rattlers, a very dry sound, have vivid colored wings, some are bright red, others yellow barred with black, but their wings go to pieces in the water and they make a very blowsy bait, while the medium-brown is a plump, compact, succulent hopper that I can recommend as far as one may well recommend something you gentlemen will probably never encounter. But I must insist that you will never gather a sufficient supply of these insects for a day’s fishing by pursuing them with your hands or trying to hit them with a bat. That is sheer nonsense and a useless waste of time. I repeat, gentlemen, that you will get nowhere at it. The correct procedure, and one which should be taught all young officers at every small-arms course if I had anything to say about it, and who knows but what I will have, is the employment of a seine or net made of common mosquito netting. Two officers holding this length of netting at alternate ends, or let us say one at each end, stoop, hold the bottom extremity of the net in one hand and the top extremity in the other and run into the wind. The hoppers, flying with the wind, fly against the length of netting and are imprisoned in its folds. It is no trick at all to catch a very great quantity indeed, and no officer, in my opinion, should be without a length of mosquito netting suitable for the improvisation of one of these grasshopper seines. I hope I have made myself clear, gentlemen. Are there any questions? If there is anything in the course you do not understand please ask questions. Speak up. None? Then I would like to close on this note. In the words of that great soldier and gentleman, Sir Henry Wilson: Gentlemen, either you must govern or you must be governed. Let me repeat it. Gentlemen, there is one thing I would like to have you remember. One thing I would like you to take with you as you leave this room. Gentlemen, either you must govern—or you must be governed. That is all, gentlemen. Good-day.”

  He removed his cloth-covered helmet, put it on again and, stooping, went out the low entrance of the dugout. Para, accompanied by the two runners, was coming down the line of the sunken road. It was very hot in the sun and Nick removed the helmet.

  “There ought to be a system for wetting these things,” he said. “I shall wet this one in the river.” He started up the bank.

  “Nicolo,” Paravicini called. “Nicolo. Where are you going?”

  “I don’t really have to go.” Nick came down the slope, holding the helmet in his hands. “They’re a damned nuisance wet or dry. Do you wear yours all the time?”

  “All the time,” said Para. “It’s making me bald. Come inside.”

  Inside Para told him to sit down.

  “You know they’re absolutely no damned good,” Nick said. “I remember when they were a comfort when we first had them, but I’ve seen them full of brains too many times.”

  “Nicolo,” Para said. “I think you should go back. I think it would be better if you didn’t come up to the line until you had those supplies. There’s nothing here for you to do. If you move around, even with something worth giving away, the men will group and that invites shelling. I won’t have it.”

  “I know it’s silly,” Nick said. “It wasn’t my idea. I heard the brigade was here so I thought I would see you or some one else I knew. I could have gone to Zenzon or to San Dona. I’d like to go to San Dona to see the bridge again.”

  “I won’t have you circulating around to no purpose,” Captain Paravicini said.

  “All right,” said Nick. He felt it coming on again.

  “You understand?”

  “Of
course,” said Nick. He was trying to hold it in.

  “Anything of that sort should be done at night.”

  “Naturally,” said Nick. He knew he could not stop it now.

  “You see, I am commanding the battalion,” Para said.

  “And why shouldn’t you be?” Nick said. Here it came. “You can read and write, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Para gently.

  “The trouble is you have a damned small battalion to command. As soon as it gets to strength again they’ll give you back your company. Why don’t they bury the dead? I’ve seen them now. I don’t care about seeing them again. They can bury them any time as far as I’m concerned and it would be much better for you. You’ll all get bloody sick.”

  “Where did you leave your bicycle?”

  “Inside the last house.”

  “Do you think it will be all right?”

  “Don’t worry,” Nick said. “I’ll go in a little while.”

  “Lie down a little while, Nicolo.”

  “All right.”

  He shut his eyes, and in place of the man with the beard who looked at him over the sights of the rifle, quite calmly before squeezing off, the white flash and clublike impact, on his knees, hot-sweet choking, coughing it onto the rock while they went past him, he saw a long, yellow house with a low stable and the river much wider than it was and stiller. “Christ,” he said, “I might as well go.”

  He stood up.

  “I’m going, Para” he said. “I’ll ride back now in the afternoon. If any supplies have come I’ll bring them down tonight. If not I’ll come at night when I have something to bring.”

  “It is still hot to ride,” Captain Paravicini said.

  “You don’t need to worry,” Nick said. “I’m all right now for quite a while. I had one then but it was easy. They’re getting much better. I can tell when I’m going to have one because I talk so much.”

  “I’ll send a runner with you.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I know the way.”

  “You’ll be back soon?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Let me send——”

  “No,” said Nick. “As a mark of confidence.”

  “Well, Ciaou then.”

  “Ciaou,” said Nick. He started back along the sunken road toward where he had left the bicycle. In the afternoon the road would be shady once he had passed the canal. Beyond that there were trees on both sides that had not been shelled at all. It was on that stretch that, marching, they had once passed the Terza Savoia cavalry regiment riding in the snow with their lances. The horses’ breath made plumes in the cold air. No, that was somewhere else. Where was that?

  “I’d better get to that damned bicycle,” Nick said to himself. “I don’t want to lose the way to Fornaci.”

  FIFTY GRAND

  “How are you going yourself, Jack?” I asked him.

  “You seen this, Walcott?” he says.

  “Just in the gym.”

  “Well,” Jack says, “I’m going to need a lot of luck with that boy.”

  “He can’t hit you, Jack,” Soldier said.

  “I wish to hell he couldn’t.”

  “He couldn’t hit you with a handful of bird-shot.”

  “Bird-shot’d be all right,” Jack says. “I wouldn’t mind bird-shot any.”

  “He looks easy to hit,” I said.

  “Sure,” Jack says, “he ain’t going to last long. He ain’t going to last like you and me, Jerry. But right now he’s got everything.”

  “You’ll left-hand him to death.”

  “Maybe,” Jack says. “Sure. I got a chance to.”

  “Handle him like you handled Kid Lewis.”

  “Kid Lewis,” Jack said. “That kike!”

  The three of us, Jack Brennan, Soldier Bartlett, and I were in Hanley’s. There were a couple of broads sitting at the next table to us. They had been drinking.

  “What do you mean, kike?” one of the broads says. “What do you mean, kike, you big Irish bum?”

  “Sure,” Jack says. “That’s it.”

  “Kikes,” this broad goes on. “They’re always talking about kikes, these big Irishmen. What do you mean, kikes?”

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Kikes,” this broad goes on. “Whoever saw you ever buy a drink? Your wife sews your pockets up every morning. These Irishmen and their kikes! Ted Lewis could lick you too.”

  “Sure,” Jack says. “And you give away a lot of things free too, don’t you?”

  We went out. That was Jack. He could say what he wanted to when he wanted to say it.

  Jack started training out at Danny Hogan’s health farm over in Jersey. It was nice out there but Jack didn’t like it much. He didn’t like being away from his wife and the kids, and he was sore and grouchy most of the time. He liked me and we got along fine together; and he liked Hogan, but after a while Soldier Bartlett commenced to get on his nerves. A kidder gets to be an awful thing around a camp if his stuff goes sort of sour. Soldier was always kidding Jack, just sort of kidding him all the time. It wasn’t very funny and it wasn’t very good, and it began to get to Jack. It was sort of stuff like this. Jack would finish up with the weights and the bag and pull on the gloves.

  “You want to work?” he’d say to Soldier.

  “Sure. How you want me to work?” Soldier would ask. “Want me to treat you rough like Walcott? Want me to knock you down a few times?”

  “That’s it,” Jack would say. He didn’t like it any, though.

  One morning we were all out on the road. We’d been out quite a way and now we were coming back. We’d go along fast for three minutes and then walk a minute, and then go fast for three minutes again. Jack wasn’t ever what you would call a sprinter. He’d move around fast enough in the ring if he had to, but he wasn’t any too fast on the road. All the time we were walking Soldier was kidding him. We came up the hill to the farmhouse.

  “Well,” says Jack, “you better go back to town, Soldier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You better go back to town and stay there.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sick of hearing you talk.”

  “Yes?” says Soldier.

  “Yes,” says Jack.

  “You’ll be a damn sight sicker when Walcott gets through with you.”

  “Sure,” says Jack, “maybe I will. But I know I’m sick of you.”

  So Soldier went off on the train to town that same morning. I went down with him to the train. He was good and sore.

  “I was just kidding him,” he said. We were waiting on the platform. “He can’t pull that stuff with me, Jerry.”

  “He’s nervous and crabby,” I said. “He’s a good fellow, Soldier.”

  “The hell he is. The hell he’s ever been a good fellow.”

  “Well,” I said, “so long, Soldier.”

  The train had come in. He climbed up with his bag.

  “So long, Jerry,” he says. “You be in town before the fight?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “See you then.”

  He went in and the conductor swung up and the train went out. I rode back to the farm in the cart. Jack was on the porch writing a letter to his wife. The mail had come and I got the papers and went over on the other side of the porch and sat down to read. Hogan came out the door and walked over to me.

  “Did he have a jam with Soldier?”

  “Not a jam,” I said. “He just told him to go back to town.”

  “I could see it coming,” Hogan said. “He never liked Soldier much.”