A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

major.
    “About the soup, major,” I said. He did not hear me. I repeated it.
    “It hasn't come up.”
    A big shell came in and burst outside in the brickyard. Another burst and in the noise you could hear the smaller noise of the brick and dirt raining down.
    “What is there to eat?”
    “We have a little pasta asciutta,” the major said.
    “I'll take what you can give me.”
    The major spoke to an orderly who went out of sight in the back and came back with a metal basin of cold cooked macaroni. I handed it to Gordini.
    “Have you any cheese?”
    The major spoke grudgingly to the orderly who ducked back into the hole again and came out with a quarter of a white cheese.
    “Thank you very much,” I said.
    “You'd better not go out.”
    Outside something was set down beside the entrance. One of the two men who had carried it looked in.
    “Bring him in,” said the major. “What's the matter with you? Do you want us to come outside and get him?”
    The two stretcher-bearers picked up the man under the arms and by the legs and brought him in.
    “Slit the tunic,” the major said.
    He held a forceps with some gauze in the end. The two captains took off their coats. “Get out of here,” the major said to the two stretcher-bearers.
    “Come on,” I said to Gordini.
    “You better wait until the shelling is over,” the major said over his shoulder.
    “They want to eat,” I said.
    “As you wish.”
    Outside we ran across the brickyard. A shell burst short near the river bank. Then there was one that we did not hear coming until the sudden rush. We both went flat and with the flash and bump of the burst and the smell heard the singing off of the fragments and the rattle of falling brick. Gordini got up and ran for the dugout. I was after him, holding the cheese, its smooth surface covered with brick dust. Inside the dugout were the three drivers sitting against the wall, smoking.
    “Here, you patriots,” I said.
    “How are the cars?” Manera asked.
    “All right.”
    “Did they scare you, Tenente?”
    “You're damned right,” I said.
    I took out my knife, opened it, wiped off the blade and pared off the dirty outside surface of the cheese. Gavuzzi handed me the basin of macaroni.
    “Start in to eat, Tenente.”
    “No,” I said. “Put it on the floor. We'll all eat.”
    “There are no forks.”
    “What the hell,” I said in English.
    I cut the cheese into pieces and laid them on the macaroni.
    “Sit down to it,” I said. They sat down and waited. I put thumb and fingers into the macaroni and lifted. A mass loosened.
    “Lift it high, Tenente.”
    I lifted it to arm's length and the strands cleared. I lowered it into the mouth, sucked and snapped in the ends, and chewed, then took a bite of cheese, chewed, and then a drink of the wine. It tasted of rusty metal. I handed the canteen back to Passini.
    “It's rotten,” he said. “It's been in there too long. I had it in the car.”
    They were all eating, holding their chins close over the basin, tipping their heads back, sucking in the ends. I took another mouthful and some cheese and a rinse of wine. Something landed outside that shook the earth.
    “Four hundred twenty or minnenwerfer,” Gavuzzi said.
    “There aren't any four hundred twenties in the mountains,” I said.
    “They have big Skoda guns. I've seen the holes.”
    “Three hundred fives.”
    We went on eating. There was a cough, a noise like a railway engine starting and then an explosion that shook the earth again.
    “This isn't a deep dugout,” Passini said.
    “That was a big trench mortar.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    I ate the end of my piece of cheese and took a swallow of wine. Through the other noise I heard a cough, then came the chuh-chuhchuh-chuh--then there was a flash, as when a blast-furnace door is swung open, and a roar that started white and went red and on and on in a rushing wind. I tried to breathe but my breath would not come and I felt myself rush bodily out of myself