The surgeon was giving her instructions. Then he was moving away to the next bed. Hamilton was noticing the long room, crowded with white beds and the orderlies hurrying about. Through the long row of tall windows the bright autumn sun was shining.
“What’s the noise?”
“The armistice’s been signed.”
“What?”
“The war’s over!” The nurse was patting his forehead.
“What? The war—over?” He was struggling vainly to get up, his will sending the blood into his emaciated muscles and tensing them. For a moment his eyes, glancing through the window to the world outside—saw the sea of frenzied men and women, dancing, singing, laughing, weeping, shouting. Then he sank back again to his pillow, suddenly white, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“War’s over! War’s over!” he repeated in a choked voice.
His brain whirled with emotions. Joy that the war was over, that danger and hardships were at an end, that he would be able to return home—home and Margaret. Somewhere was a faint shadow of regret that the war had not lasted long enough for him to have won his captaincy. His grandfather had been a captain in the Confederate army. Two ancestors had been captains in Washington’s army. Hamilton had been brought up in the fighting tradition and in the officer tradition. And he had been recommended for promotion by his battalion commander.
Hamilton’s eyes swept the room. Several of the other patients were standing at the windows, looking down upon the crowded streets. Others were sitting up in bed or in armchairs. The rest were lying back, like himself, evidently too ill to sit up. He turned his head and watched the faces. On the next bed lay a bundle of bandages. It was moving slowly. Hamilton watched fascinatedly. He caught a glimpse of his face, and turned even paler. Then his face flushed angrily.
“Nurse, nurse!” His voice rose shrilly. “There’s a skunk in here.”