lieutenants lambert and lockwood. you two leaving us, eh? in a way, i'm sorry to release you two. i have no choice in the matter.
mm? spasmodic twitching of the muscles under the eye, eh, lieutenant?
what the french call a tic. t-i-c, tic. little bothersome, isn't it?
i'm afraid time'll have to take care of that. time and normal living.
you two are returning to the united states, i presume?
i'd take the first boat home. well, here you go.
oh, i forgot your burnt hands.
neither of you is fully hospitalized. i'd undertake a systematic course of finger exercises -- to, uh, stretch them and loosen them up. in time, you'll regain their full use.
bye, lieutenant.
bye, lieutenant. good luck.
well, there they go. out to face life. and their whole training was in preparation for death.
i'm afraid they're unfit for further service in that direction.
they fell, you know -- six thousand meters. like dropping a fine swiss watch on the pavement. shattered both of them. their nervous systems are deranged, disorganized, brittle.
spent bullets. that's it. they're like projectiles, shaped for war and hurled at the enemy. they've described a beautiful, high-arching trajectory. and now they've fallen back to earth. spent. cooled off. useless.
even if they do take care of themselves, what good are they? what can you expect of them? i hate to think what may become of them.