"Be reasonable ... try to be reasonable. My god, you think we want your smashed arm? What will we do with it? Can we sell it?" Realizing that his humor was crude, he added: "Easy, Orville ... we’re looking after you ... believe in us." "It’s not your amputation," snarled Dennison. Turning to Sister Blanche, Dr. Phelan ordered her to jot down notes: notations about the skull x-rays, the arm, wrist, and hand radiographs: he dictated in a Midi-voice, a tired, harsh, old voice. Dennison attempted to follow the medical terminology, still unconvinced. "What about my head injury?" he asked. "You mean, what’s wrong?" "What happened ... nobody has explained." "It’s a combination of severe bruises and a scalp wound ... not serious, Monsieur. Lucky there. We’re certain about those injuries. Confident." Phelan clicked his pen against the side of the examination table. "Trust is what you lack ... cover him nurse. Don’t you see he’s shivering!" Dennison felt himself roll with pain. So the shelling had gotten his arm! It was lying there beside him, and he was powerless to move it: smashed bones, shredded flesh, stinking flesh ... that’s how it was! Still he wanted to see his arm and attempted to turn his head, his mind at loose ends: but he was being wheeled on the gurney; he sank into his pillow, moaning. "I can’t go through life without an arm," he said to the nurse as he rolled through a hallway. "I can’t..." Back in his room, he called Sister Blanche to his side. "Wait a few days ... give me a chance." "We don’t dare wait," she replied. "Another day..." "That would double the danger." "I don’t believe it." "You must believe in us," she said, fixing his covers, adjusting his bed, understanding and love obvious in her face. "It’s my arm ... mine ... it’s mine." Dr. Phelan appeared. "We have reviewed the x-rays ... it’s conclusive, my boy. It’s surgery. Later, when it’s all over, I’ll do a detailed drawing for you." Later, he rechecked the injury, gauze mask over his face: he probed, hating the stench, examining, re-examining tissue, bone; he checked potential bleeding, planning his surgery. Dennison swore, gutter filth, wild, French, English. The doctor dictated more notes to Blanche--oblivious. "Now for the injection," he said to her. "We’ll take him as soon as the theater is free." As Dennison began to go under the strong sedative, he heard Sister Blanche talking: "You talk big ... very big ... of course you must talk like that ... it kills some of the pain ... it helps ... I know ... I had two nephews, good at swearing. Dr. Phelan’s right ... you know ... you see, I’ve helped him through the years. Sleep now, my son. Be quiet in your mind, Orville. God will take care of you. You will be all right..." Orville was thinking: I’ve been longing to be alone ... the war’s nearly over ... I’m alone ... for sure ... and what have I got?