“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?”