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They part. The mist has turned to rain. Henry goes to the train. A gaunt, scarred artillery captain challenges him over the seat, claiming it because he arrived two hours before Henry. There is a momentary confrontation, and then Henry backs down. You get the feeling that a younger Frederic Henry would have fought the man. Has love mellowed him? Or is he tired of strife? Does he feel sympathy for the captain, who looks as if he, too, has had a rough time of it? All of the above.
Henry sleeps on the floor in the corridor as the train, packed with men going to the war, plunges through the rain.
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