“I’ll bet they throw the benches at you,” Ettore said. “Did you hear how they threw the benches at him in Modena?” “It’s a damned lie.” “They threw the benches at him,” Ettore said. “I was there. I threw six benches myself.” “You’re just a wop from Frisco.” “He can’t pronounce Italian,” Ettore said. “Everywhere he goes they throw the benches at him.” “Piacenza’s the toughest house to sing in the north of Italy,” the other tenor said. “Believe me that’s a tough little house to sing.” This tenor’s name was Edgar Saunders, and he sang under the name of Edouardo Giovanni. “I’d like to be there to see them throw the benches at you,” Ettore said. “You can’t sing Italian.” “He’s a nut,” said Edgar Saunders. “All he knows how to say is throw benches.” “That’s all they know how to do when you two sing,” Ettore said. “Then when you go to America you’ll tell about your triumphs at the Scala. They wouldn’t let you get by the first note at the Scala.” “I’ll sing at the Scala,” Simmons said. “I’m going to sing Tosca in October.” “We’ll go, won’t we, Mac?” Ettore said to the vice-consul. “They’ll need somebody to protect them.” “Maybe the American army will be there to protect them,” the vice-consul said. “Do you want another drink, Simmons? You want a drink, Saunders?” “All right,” said Saunders. “I hear you’re going to get the silver medal,” Ettore said to me. “What kind of citation you going to get?” “I don’t know. I don’t know I’m going to get it.” “You’re going to get it. Oh boy, the girls at the Cova will think you’re fine then. They’ll all think you killed two hundred Austrians or captured a whole trench by yourself. Believe me, I got to work for my decorations.” “How many have you got, Ettore?” asked the vice-consul. “He’s got everything,” Simmons said. “He’s the boy they’re running the war for.” “I’ve got the bronze twice and three silver medals,” said Ettore. “But the papers on only one have come through.” “What’s the matter with the others?” asked Simmons. “The action wasn’t successful,” said Ettore. “When the action isn’t successful they hold up all the medals.” “How many times have you been wounded, Ettore?” “Three times bad. I got three wound stripes. See?” He pulled his sleeve around. The stripes were parallel silver lines on a black background sewed to the cloth of the sleeve about eight inches below the shoulder. “You got one too,” Ettore said to me. “Believe me they’re fine to have. I’d rather have them than medals. Believe me, boy, when you get three you’ve got something. You only get one for a wound that puts you three months in the hospital.” “Where were you wounded, Ettore?” asked the vice-consul. Ettore pulled up his sleeve. “Here,” he showed the deep smooth red scar. “Here on my leg. I can’t show you that because I got puttees on; and in the foot. There’s dead bone in my foot that stinks right now. Every morning I take new little pieces out and it stinks all the time.” “What hit you?” asked Simmons.