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soon as he was able to get out of bed and stand transferred him to Paris with a train of the Red Cross; of there in a research center in London. It was a sort of immense hospital, where patients were soldiers emerged from the massacre of French and Belgian countryside and sick with no apparent remedy dysentery, worm infections, that could not be cured, forms of insanity were not recorded on the texts of psychiatry.
Filiput John Cally in there was the icing on the cake, in that case was the rarest of all: he was the only survivor of a bombing on the basis of dichloro ethyl sulfide, the gas and the place of his then passed to the first use history as yprite.
They explained that he was for them a kind of living phenomenon. His uniform, his boots, vest and pants were soaked with gas that just like the clothes of the dead. To them the skin several hours after death is flaky and fall apart, revealing a sticky, smelly liquid oozing hypodermis. Traces of this gas were also found on his hands, neck and face, deposited as a fine powder which dries the skin. First responders were tested with gauze to clean the dust that was analyzed proved to be dichloro ethyl sulfide in quantities that can kill a whole company. But he was not dead, he had no damage to the respiratory or sores on the hands or body. Nothing had happened, if not something that had a little 'out of office head as he told that story to all of her dorm that first brought him to safety and then he turned back to die. But this could be explained: when one has gone through a death camp as if his feet touched the ocean without drowning in a storm, seeing all his comrades die one after the other without uttering one breath it is certain that something is out of place inside the brain.
-well? He asked the doctor who was talking.
-Us, we hope everyone, but nobody knows how it will end your story, "replied the doctor, you're the only case that we have.
After the war no one could say John Cally Filiput if the maid, whose name was entered in the medical texts of law, was actually okay with the head or are not, and in this case no one could swear that one day she would return to place that poor head. Of course there was always that the patient had continued to insist on an absurd version of "my friend Kurt Marx saved my life, running faster than the wind," but among the dead that morning there was no with that name, even in that company in that battalion, in the regiment and across the American Expeditionary Force in Europe had not existed none of the soldiers who were called Kurt Marx.
John Cally Filiput was discharged after a full year of admission. The War had been over for a few months, and the American contingent was almost completely returned. There were only a couple of battalions of the Existence and Health to reload the ships the last crumbs. John Cally Filiput was admitted to a health department, which he did not single out a hypodermic needle from a syringe, but the war was now a memory and then he had a special character: the officers were careful from giving orders, and the NCO turned away.
He slept during the Atlantic crossing, the sea for nearly two weeks of mostly calm sea perfect for a new era of peace, quite different from that of his arrival in Europe, sea agitated by wartime.
He began his research from Richmond, where his story with Kurt Marx Karl Marx's adoptive cousin had begun, but his regiment was disbanded on returning home, and all documents had been sent to the central Atlanta for troops on leave. Now he was famous in the States, he had seen in Richmond that did not make the hall. In Atlanta's enough to give his name because everyone stands at attention and nobody wanted to ask which give cause for stirring in the old paperwork. They put up the heavy logs of all actual 122 th Regiment in the last five years, mackerel, and laid on a table to have a comfortable chair.
There was no trace on that record of a soldier named Kurt Marx, had never existed in the regiment, nor was the far left for Europe no one by that name.
John Cally Filiput immediately went back to Richmond, to be sure that the only place where he could finally have news of his friend was the administration of the hospital where he was still hospitalized when he was not a soldier was lying and where Kurt Marx in the bed next to her, admitted before him in a fit of jaundice, yellow like a lemon, were the words of Adele nurse, if she had not invented him.
But there was not even the presence of a patient by that name, non nel periodo prebellico, né durante né dopo la guerra. Per di più Adele si era sposata e trasferita altrove senza lasciare indirizzo.
-La maggior parte delle infermiere fa così, soprattutto quando sono molto carine, gli rivelò un sottufficiale; lo fanno perché qualche ammalato o qualche medico che si era montato la testa non le vada a cercare rovinandole magari il matrimonio.
Così veniva reciso il cordone ombelicale tra lui e il "tedesco". Non esisteva nessun dato relativo al fante Kurt Marx, di origine germanica ma morto a Ypres per mano germanica con indosso una uniforme americana, e che fosse americano come lui John Cally Filiput non aveva alcun dubbio, perché with their own eyes had seen the name written in Roman characters on the plate and not in Gothic, as the names of German soldiers died on platelets that sometimes he happened to pick up before burying them. He had dreamed a dream does not last for more than a year. True, however, was that if someone had asked how to speak English Kurt Marx could not give an answer: he did not know what language you speak Kurt Marx, did not even know the sound of his voice because Kurt Marx had never spoken to, but if it had always been good good to hear what he said, since they had met in a military hospital ward of Richmond until she had left him exhausted, but except on a hill the edge of the yellow fog that had stopped before returning to the trenches.
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