Chapter Nine. THE recreation hall was crowded as Rocco pushed the wheel-char toward a small space on the floor where Johnny could see the screen

THE recreation hall was crowded as Rocco pushed the wheel-char toward a small space on the floor where Johnny could see the screen. Johnny looked around him. The faces he saw were eager, expectant, bright with anticipation.

Ever since the news had got around a week ago that they were going to see a moving picture in the recreation hall, the talk around the hospital had been about nothing else. Men who had not displayed interest in anything heretofore were suddenly interested, alive.

Johnny had been one of these, much to Rocco's surprise. When he had heard about it, he had straightened up in bed. I want to see the picture," he said to Rocco.

Rocco looked at him. There was a look on Johnny's face he hadn't seen for a long time. A look of anticipation, of excite­ment. "Sure," he said, "sure. Walk or ride?"

Johnny looked at the crutches and then back at Rocco. "I think I'll ride," he said, trying to smile. "It's got more class and besides it guarantees a seat."

Rocco laughed. Suddenly he began to feel better. It was the first time in a long while he had heard Johnny try to joke.

During the week that followed, Johnny plied Rocco with questions. Did he know what picture it was? Who was in it? What company made it? Who directed it?

Rocco didn't know any of the answers. It seemed no one did. All they knew was that they were going to see a picture. He thought it was strange that Johnny should ask all these questions. "How come you're so curious about the picture?" he asked.

But Johnny didn't answer and Rocco thought he had fallen asleep. But he hadn't. He lay there, his head on the pillow, his eyes shut, but his mind was awake—vividly awake with an excitement he never thought he would know again. He had not written to Peter or anyone since he had been hurt. Their letters had been unanswered. He didn't want any sympathy, any acts born of charity. If he had been unhurt, he would have gone back gladly, but this way, crippled, he could not envision himself as being anything less than a burden to them. So he had not written and had closed his heart and mind to the past.

He looked around the hall. The projection machine was not too far behind him. Lovingly he let his eye dwell upon it with all the fondness a man might look at his home. And it was true. Suddenly he was homesick. Homesick for the smell of the celluloid strips as they ran through the projector and came out warm. For the thin, tangy, crackling ozone-like smell of the carbon arc lights in the machine itself.

He gestured to Rocco. "Push me over to the machine," he said, "I want to see what it looks like."

Rocco pushed him near it and he sat there quietly watching the operator thread the film into the sprockets. He felt good just watching him.

They began to draw the curtains over the windows and gradually the room grew dark. Then it was pitch-black and he couldn't see anything. He wanted desperately

to light a cigarette, but he remembered he couldn't smoke sitting near the film as he was. He heard the faintly familiar buzz as the carbon sparks caught, and then the strong bright light flashed on the screen.

Words flashed on. At first they were blurred and then they were clear and distinct as the operator set the focus on his lens. Johnny read the words, his lips moving as he passed over them.

To the soldiers at Long Island State Hospital:

The motion-picture equipment and the film you are about to see has been donated to us by Mr. Peter Kessler, president of Magnum Pictures, Inc. He has made this presentation to us on behalf of the more than fifty of his coworkers and employees who have served with us during the past war, many of whom have not returned.

We can do no more than say "Thanks" to Mr. Kessler for his kind and generous gift and express our appreciation by enjoying the show that is about to follow.

signed: Col. James F. Arthur, U. S. A.

COMMANDING OFFICER,

LONG ISLAND STATE HOSPITAL

The words flashed from the screen almost before Johnny could grasp their meaning. He had been frozen to his chair when Peter's name had flashed on the screen, but now it was gone.

And in its place came the familiar trade-mark, the opening shot that identified every Magnum Picture: the big champagne bottle with the champagne flowing into a glass until the glass was filled to the brim. Then the words covering the whole screen in Gothic lettering:

MAGNUM PICTURES

PRESENTS

Johnny's voice reached Rocco's ears in an agonized whisper. "Take me out of here, Rock!" it said with suppressed intensity, "Take me out!"

For a moment Rocco stood still in surprise. He didn't understand it. Johnny had been so eager to see the picture, and now before it began he wanted to leave. He leaned forward. "What'sa matter, Johnny?" he whispered in his ear. "Yuh sick?"

He could see Johnny's fists clenched on the arm of the chair as he replied: "No. Just take me out, that's all. Take me out!"

He steered the wheelchair to the door and out. The bright lights in the hall hurt his eyes and he blinked for a moment; then he looked at Johnny.

Johnny's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, so tight that tears stood in the corners of them. His face was white and strained and drops of sweat stood out on his pallid skin.

Quickly Rocco pushed him back to his room and helped him into bed. Johnny's body was trembling. Gently Rocco covered him and stood near him. "Was it somebody you knew, Johnny?" he asked gently.

Johnny's eyes opened suddenly and stared at him. Accidentally Rocco had stumbled on the truth. He must not know any more. "No," he said slowly. What was that thing he had heard the doctors talking about the other day—claustrophobia, the fear of being shut up in a small place and not being able to get out. Make Rocco think that was what had been the matter with him.

"Suddenly I couldn't stand it in there any more," he said. "I felt I would never get out." He laughed self-consciously. "I must have that claustro—er—something the doctors talk about."

Rocco looked at him but didn't answer. His mind was work­ing. Johnny wasn't fooling him this time. He was going to find the real reason behind the way Johnny had acted. If he had really been afraid of being cooped up in there, he never would have been able to stay in this room so long a time.

The girl came out of the officer's room. She smiled at Rocco. "You may go in now, sergeant. Captain Richards will see you."

He thanked her and went into the little office. He drew himself to attention and saluted the officer.

The officer negligently returned his salute and looked up at him wearily. "Sit down, sergeant," he said in a tired voice. "We don't hold with the formalities in here."

Rocco sat down in a chair opposite the officer's desk. The officer looked down at the paper on his desk and then up at Rocco. "Your request is a most unusual one, sergeant," he remarked.

Rocco leaned forward in his chair. "It's the only way I believe we can help him, sir."

The officer grunted and looked down at the paper on his desk again. He studied it for a few minutes and then spoke. "I have Corporal Edge's service record here as you requested, but there is nothing on it that would give us any clues as to his family or friends or background. He took no life insurance from us and the only one to be notified in case of injury to him is one Joseph Turner, now deceased." He took a pipe from his desk and filled it with tobacco. He held a match to it until it was drawing comfortably. He looked over at Rocco. "You say he says he has no place to go and that he wants to remain here."

Rocco nodded.

The captain shook his head. "Well, there's no way we can force the man to leave short of bodily ejection if he doesn't want to. The only thing I can see is to transfer him to a mental hospital."

Rocco jumped to his feet. "There's no reason for that, sir," he said quickly. "Johnny's all right. There's no more the matter with him than there is with me."

"You seem to know him very well," the officer said.

"We were buddies," Rocco answered simply. "We were in the same outfit overseas. I sent him on that mission on which he got hurt and Joe got killed."

The officer nodded his head slowly. "I see," he said, "and you feel responsible for him?"

"Sort of," Rocco admitted.

"Is that why you stayed in?" the officer asked.

"Yes, sir," Rocco answered.

The officer was silent for a while and then he spoke. "I commend you for your feelings, sergeant, but if all the people in the service took their responsibilities as deeply as you, we would have more orderlies in the hospitals than patients."

Rocco made no reply.

The officer continued: "That, however, does not resolve our problem. Have you any further suggestions?"

Rocco leaned forward in his seat. He spoke anxiously. "If you could get Joe Turner's service record, maybe something on it would give us an idea of Johnny's background."

The captain thought that over. "And if we did, sergeant, we are not allowed to investigate any further." He paused for a moment and then added: "Officially."

Rocco smiled understandingly at him. "I know that, sir," he said, "but I might accidentally stumble across something that would be of great help."

The captain stood up. He returned Rocco's smile. "Accidentally, of course."

Rocco got to his feet. "Then you will try to get a copy of Joe's service record, sir?"

The captain nodded his head.

Rocco stood on the street in front of the building. The sign over the doorway read: "Magnum Pictures Company, Inc." He hesitated a moment and then entered the building. He was in a small reception room.

A girl's face peeked through a small window at him. "No hiring done here, soldier," she said.

"I'm not looking for a job, miss," he said. "I came to see someone."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Whom did you wish to see?"

Rocco took the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. "Mr. Peter Kessler."

"Your name, sir?" she inquired.

"Sergeant Savold, Rocco Savold," he answered.

"Won't you sit down, please?" she said. "I'll see if Mr. Kessler can see you."

Rocco sat down. He sat there for almost fifteen minutes. He wondered if the girl had forgotten about him. The window flew up suddenly and the girl's face looked out at him.

"I have Mr. Kessler's secretary on the phone. What do you wish to see Mr. Kessler about? He's very busy at the moment. If you tell her your business, she will put you down for an appointment."

Rocco hesitated for a second. He didn't want to talk with the secretary, but she would have to do if he couldn't talk directly with Mr. Kessler. He nodded.

The girl handed a phone through the open window to him. "Hello," he said into it.

The secretary's voice was briskly efficient and impersonal. "I'm Miss Andersen, Mr. Kessler's secretary. Can I help you?"

"I—uh, I don't know, miss," he said, "I wanted to speak to Mr. Kessler on a personal matter."

"You can speak with me," the pleasant impersonal voice replied, "I'm also his personal secretary."

He thought for a second. She would have to do. "I wanted to speak to him about Johnny Edge," he said. There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone. "Did you hear me, miss?" he asked anxiously.

The voice that spoke now was a different one from that he had heard before. "I heard you," it said. It was very faint, he could hardly hear her. "You wanted to speak about Johnny Edge?"

"That's right, miss," he said, suddenly excited. "Do you I know him?"

"Yes," she answered. "Is he all right?"

"Sure," he said, smiling into the phone, "sure."

"Thank God," came the fervent whisper back into his ear.