He throws himself on the bed and after lying there a few minutes sits up.
The Lieutenant—Gotta have another drink—can't go sleep, God damn it—brain too clear—gotta kill brain—that's the dope—kill brain—forget—wipe out past—
He opens the trunk in his search for liquor. He suddenly pulls out his lieutenant's coat and holds it up.
The Lieutenant—There's that God damn thing—never wanted to see it again—wound stripes on right sleeve, too—hurrah for brave soldier—arm shot off to—to make world safe for democracy—blaa—the god damn hypocrites—democracy hell—arm shot off because I wasn't clever enough to stay out of it—ought to have had sense enough to join the—the ordinance department or—or the Y.M.C.A.
He feels aimlessly through the pockets of the coat. Suddenly, from the inside breast pocket he draws out something—a photograph—
The Lieutenant—Ellen! Oh God!
He gazes at the picture for a long time.
The Lieutenant—Yes, Ellen, I should have joined the Y.M.C.A. shouldn't I?—where they don't get their arms shot off—couldn't marry a man with one arm, could you?—of course not—think of looking at an empty sleeve year after year—children might be born with only one arm, too—children—oh God damn you, Ellen, you and your Y.M.C.A. husband!
He tears the picture in two and hurls it into the trunk. Then he sinks onto the bed, sobbing drunkenly. After a few minutes, he walks over to the trunk and picks up one half of the torn picture. He turns it over in his hand and reads the writing on the back.