"Give me a drink, Jean ... a glass of water ... my Pershing arm is thirsty."
"Yes, Orv, yes."
What if he committed suicide like Chuck?
He slept fitfully, through war dreams and serious pain, travelling that route for several days and nights, gaining little, losing a little, angry, difficult, at times abnormally calm. He began to enjoy his food. He began to look ahead. Began to avoid self-induced fabrications. He knew he must learn to write with his left hand. How long would it take to become proficient? He would have to learn by himself. Certainly he would have to learn to sketch--with a reasonable amount of skill.
How would Jeannette bear up under his problems ... would she be an outsider? When he made love to her would she resent him, his armlessness a continual influence? In his probings he understood more and more that she symbolized hope. Stealing glimpses of sanity through pain, he knew they had become a pair in London ... together they might fly home, sail home.
He wanted to phone Aunt Therèse and Uncle Victor but the physical task of phoning was beyond him; there was no room extension; he asked Jeannette to talk to them. He had her write to his mother: he tried to dictate the letter but bogged down completely. With the help of Sister Blanche he informed the army of his condition; the Red Cross sent information; Dr. Phelan telephoned; official forms were forthcoming. Orville did his best to keep from sweating out these problems.
Drugged sleep settled many things.
Was sleep another deception?
Maybe sleep was a second floor or attic. Basement?
Memory--he scudded through his memory, testing it: King Francis ruled at the time of da Vinci; Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812; Haley's Comet same year ... King Cyprus knew the name of every soldier in his army; Mithridates spoke twenty-two languages ... if memory could be so dependable then it must be equally possible to forget--erase horrors.