"My War" my military experiences

My War - Installment 52

2010-01-18T15:27:00.002-07:00

"Third word is dick," yelled one girl.

I shook my head no.

"Penis, pecker, balls, scrotum.", yelled another of the girls.

I was a bit embarrassed. I kept shaking my head no, really getting into the spirit of the game. I was having a ball.

"Crotch, yea crotch. Toe jam and crotch cheese," called out two of the girls simultaneously.

They had gotten it really fast. I sat down and we watched the other team work on one of our phrases. The evening passed quickly, much too quickly. I fell in love with charades.

The party started to break up around eleven o’clock; some of the people from the cast had to work the next day, including Nancy. I hung around, not having anything better to do, trying not to be too obvious, and hoping that she might want to talk with me. I wanted to be alone with Nancy for a few minutes. Eventually all the party goers had gone, except for me. Nancy and I were alone at last; we talked for a short time.

"Are you doing anything tomorrow morning, Sam?"

"No not that I'm aware of. I have no plans, other than going back to the hospital, I guess. BT and the others are going back tomorrow also."

"Why don't you go to work with me in the morning?"

"Yes, why don't I go to work with you in the morning? Like I said, I have nothing planned. I'd like to spend some time with you any how."

All of my things, other than some money, were in my car at Doug's garage. Without her saying anything I took it that I could spend the night at her place.

"You can have the couch," she said.

"Fine with me, I can walk to a friend's apartment if its inconvenient for you."

"No that's all right."

She went to the bathroom and washed, brushed her teeth and changed. I looked around the apartment; it was really a large efficiency. There was only one large room that had a kitchenette area, a bed and then a living room area. Nancy came out from the bathroom dressed only in a cotton night shirt that went to her knees. Her long reddish hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked terrific, even with her make up off. Gone were my vivid visions of rotten, syphilitic penises and vaginal lips. This woman I could come to like very much and maybe even love quiet easily.

She came to me and said good night, I kissed her tentatively and lightly on the lips and thanked her for a wonderful evening. I was the noble type, due to my religious beliefs and up bringing, I was not about to try something. Maybe she expected me too, even above my saying I would not, I respected her. She turned and went to her bed. I watched as she turned back the covers and crawled under the sheet.

She had left a sheet and blanket on the arm of the sofa for me. I made a bed there on the sofa and lay down continuing to gaze at her, wondering if I should push my luck....I was a very naive young fellow, really! I lay there, fully clothed, day dreaming foolish thoughts about Nancy. Was she the woman for me? Would she be the one to meet my need for a girlfriend, for the warmth and closeness that I longed for? For the relationship that I had seen other men and their wives or girl friends have. Time would certainly tell. I finally stripped off my shirt. I lay watching her for what seemed like hours. I knew very little about her, I didn't even know how old she was, not that it mattered. Maybe I was a foolish person to believe that she could want me, I told myself. I am glad that I was not wearing my feelings on my shirt sleeve; at least I had one good attribute left. I fell asleep still kicking around thoughts of girls in general. "Hospital life must be turning me into a hedonistic monster I thought."

Morning came quickly, too quickly. Nancy woke me at six o'clock. I washed my face, not being able to shave, and then pulled on my shirt and tried to make myself presentable. We left the apartment and took a bus down town to where she worked. She had me fill out a W-2 form for the agency. I was to be paid for my labor that day. Did she just need help that day? Is that the reason she wanted me to go to work with her?

I worked on some pamphlets for the new dog food "Chuck Wagon" initial marketing campaign, while Nancy kept busy in another room. Gee, I didn't even get to be with her. Shortly after noon we stopped working and had a bite to eat. Later that day we took the subway back up town to her neighborhood. At her apartment she bid me farewell. She had to get ready for a date that evening.

I reluctantly left and walked the many blocks to Jeff's parent's apartment. What a young fool I had been. I could cope with people shooting at me with guns and rockets. I could deal with death and pain and all that, but come to women and I was at a loss.

Jeff suggested that I spend the night. His folks were not home. I was down a bit, and therefore accepted his invitation, not wanting to be alone just then. He was calling some girls up trying to set up dates for the two of us. "Das liebe est."

As my continuing luck would have it that evening Jeff's two girls turned into one, for him. The three of us went to a pub nearby for some liquid refreshment. We all had a drink of Green Chartreuse, recommended by Jeff as being great stuff. It was the worst tasting, most expensive drink that I believe I had ever had. We spent some time at the pub listening to the music that throbbed from the flashy juke box. Rescue Me by Aretha Franklin undulated across the air of the room. A perfect sentiment for me just then, I was definitely ready to be rescued.

Back at the apartment I watched TV while Jeff and his friend made grunting sounds in the back bedroom.

I left early the next morning for the hospital. I looked forward to the quiet of my little TB ward room. During the drive back I realized that I had certainly played the fool to the hilt. "Had I been subconsciously or consciously looking for a substitute, something to take the place of my love of flying? Could it be a natural inborn desire for female companionship?" I argued with myself. "You can't stay a kid forever; no matter how hard you try. I can try though. I'm not at ease around women, but I can be. It's just easier and less complicated with guys, hunting, fishing and flying.

When I got back to the hospital I checked my mail, there was a letter from Arkansas. It had to be Katie's friend. Who else would be writing me from Arkansas? I had enough to do with women for one weekend. I put the letter aside without even opening it. I wanted nothing to do with women. I went to the "O" Club. As soon as I entered the club I saw some pretty girls and changed my mind about not wanting to think about women. I ate and then went to Ward 3AB to visit my friends. BT was not back from the New York City so I went to visit Wade.

"Hey what a coincidence that you should stop by just now, Shelly got you fixed up with one of her friends for a date tomorrow evening. You know the one she told you about that is over at the State Looney Hospital, in Norristown."

"Oh - yea. I remember. He handed me her address and phone number; I looked at the address, she lived in Limerick, Pennsylvania. I immediately started to chuckle to myself as a few limericks ran through my mind. "I once knew a girl from Limerick, she had some big...."

It seemed that I just could not get away from women so I might as well fess up to the problems that they brought me. I started to think that my theme song should be "I Fall in Love Too Easily". That date didn't work out either, she did have some big... Women, you can't live with 'em, you can't live without 'em!

I was even starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me because I was unable to find a girl friend. I decided that I just needed to get away from the hospital for awhile, away from all these surroundings and people. I would have to inquire about taking some leave.

The CO of the Medical Holding Company began to hassle me again; I guess he needed something to do. Maybe the place was getting him down also. I told him we could talk about it after I got back from the golf course.

"Get your hair cut," he yelled after me.

I personally thought my hair was not that long; in fact I despised long hair. I had almost forgotten about Billy Casper, the golf pro. He was going to be at the Hospital's golf course that day to put on a demonstration. I thought that I just might be able to learn how to stop slicing and hooking the ball when I played.

The demonstration was sensational, absolutely and positively impressive. It was amazing to see the control someone could have over a ball, by using a club properly. If I could hit half as good, I thought, I would go on the pro tour. It looked as if the whole hospital had turned out to meet Billy Casper, everyone except the CO of the Medical Holding Company.

THE BELLS ARE RINGING FOR BUD AND HIS GAL

I received a letter from Buddy that day, he was still in Vietnam, and he wanted to fill me in on some of the details of his wedding plans. He had received orders and would be going to Fort Stuart at Savannah, Georgia after leaving Southeast Asia. He still wanted me to be his best man. I was flattered. He planned to get married very soon after he got back. The wedding would be in Stuttgart, Arkansas, Katie's home town, her friends also. We would wear our dress blues for the wedding. My dress blues were going to be getting worn for the third time: graduation, my brother's wedding, and pretty soon Buddy's wedding.

Buddy was going to rent a house when he got to Savannah. He tentatively planned on my going to Savannah to visit him for a few days, then we would both drive to Arkansas, in formation. He asked me what I thought of the picture that Katie's friend had sent me. I had forgotten all about the letter, in fact I had still not opened it.

I searched around in my bed side table looking for her letter. I wanted to open it then so as to relate Buddy my true and honest impression. I reached for my pocket knife, flipped open a blade and slit the edge of the envelope. Blowing open the end of the envelope and tilting it slightly a thick sheaf of folded papers fell out on my table. I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on the photograph. Pictures could be deceiving. I had better hold my final judgment for a later time. In the letter, written very neatly, she told me about herself, about the guy g she was going with, about her life long friend Katie and other things. I sort of got the feeling that she was writing just to please Katie and her future husband, and to be nice to a dumb war mongering veteran, in a hospital, far away. I asked myself if I was becoming too cynical and pessimistic, perhaps I was.

I spent the evening drafting letters to Buddy and Allie. I filled in Buddy on all the latest. I told Allie about myself and how I was looking forward to meeting her at the wedding and how I hoped that she would continue to write to me. "It's a lonely business being a professional patient," I joked, "I appreciate your writing very much."

During the next month and one half I occupied my time with golf, PT and writing volumes to Allie and others. Some of the questions she posed to me elicited lengthy philosophical ramblings on my part; of course, I certainly had the time to philosophize. I was looking forward to Buddy getting back and his wedding and meeting and seeing Allie in person, especially since I had come to know her so well by letter. It wouldn't be long. I went ahead and made arrangements to take two weeks leave around the time of the wedding.

One weekend, a Friday night to be exact, there was a party at a couple of the female nurses' apartment, about a mile from the hospital. Any body that was anybody on ward 3AB, along with other selected guests were invited to attend. The only people that were not there were those that had to remain on duty. The nurses had made lots of food and there were many other goodies to munch on, it was a B.Y.O.B (Bring Your Own Bottle). type party. I rode to the party with Bill, one of the male nurses; there were some others that rode with him too. He and Ralph lived on the first floor of the building and Louise and Penny lived up stairs. We all had a good time visiting and letting our hair hang down, so to speak. Music blared from the stereo, the Lettermen, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel and many others. Some of the people danced, others of us just relaxed sitting on the floor talking; some trying tying to get smashed, and still others just watching the dancers cuddle together in each other arms. Booze had been flowing freely.

The hospital staff needed to unwind too. It was not only hard being a patient; patients got to leave eventually, the staff continued on, seeing the broken mutilated men coming in, in endless numbers. There was an occasional woman, WAC (Women’ Army Corps), that came into the hospital, but by an exaggerated majority the patients were men.

I overheard two of the female nurses giggling and talking about one of the WAC's, that was on a second floor ward, in one of the hospital’s many buildings. This particular WAC had a broken femur and was in a body cast, the same type that I had been in when I was shipped from Japan. The unique thing about her situation was that while in the body cast, on the ward, she had become pregnant.

"Figure that one out," said one of the nurses that I was listening to.

"He must have been one long stud," said the other and then the two laughed out loud again.

I should have known better than to ride to a party in someone else’s automobile. When I was ready to leave, Bill, who had promised a return trip to the hospital, was so blitzed that he could barely stand up. In fact he was sort of sitting-lying in a heap up against one end of a sofa, laughing maniacally at another drunk’s idiotic joke. Most everyone there was wasted to some degree or another. Marty was red-faced and chuckling in his quiet way, with or, at Bill and the others. There were more men than women, and the good looking ones were already spoken for, so I just figured that I would go ahead and leave. I could just walk back to the hospital by myself.

I walked along the road, my brace clicking with each step I made. I was enjoying the fresh cool smokeless air of late evening, or early morning, which ever it was. Within fifteen minutes I could see the lights of the hospital grounds. I swaggered my way toward the back gate twirling my cane around like a vaudevillian performer and humming to myself Gene Pitney's "The Elusive Butterfly of Life", that had been stuck in my mind all evening long. I approached the rear gate, which I had driven through many times, to my surprise the damn gate was chained and padlocked. It would be a bare minimum of another mile or so to walk around the fenced perimeter to the front gate. So....I decided that I would climb over. I sized up the gate and for some reason checked my watch, seeing that it was well after midnight. I threw my cane over into the thick grass to the left of the gate. I was somewhat upset by the lack of light there, the night was dark and moonless. The few drinks that I had at the party were taking some effect, "A bad time for them to do that", I mumbled to myself.

My black low cut military oxfords had very blunt rounded toes and in my half dazed state, I was having trouble finding toe holds on the mesh of the fence. I pulled myself up and over with my arms and sort of flipped over the top landing, fortunately, on my feet in the grass on the inside. Within a few more minutes I was in my room, safe and sound. I looked down at my wrist to check the time, my watch was gone. I sat numbly for a moment trying to figure out where it could be. It had to be at the fence.

Flashlight in hand, I crept out into the darkness of the hospital grounds and began walking back toward the rear gate. There, hanging where I had just come over a few minutes before, at the top of the gate, was my Seiko watch. I knocked it down with my cane, picked it up, and went back to crawl into bed. Thinking about my escapade the following morning I came to realize how lucky I had been not coming across any MPs, the dumb bastards might have shot me while I was crawling over the fence.

A few days later, when I went to sign out on leave I was asked if I could be back for an Honors Retreat that was scheduled for Friday, 27 October 1967.

"Sure," I replied, "I'll make it a point to be here on the 25th at the very latest.”

They refused to tell me why it was so important for me to be there for the ceremony, and I had no idea if there was any, award I would be getting that day. At least I would have something different to look forward to when I would get back. I had talked to Buddy in Savannah; he had rented a house and told me I could come down whenever I wanted. All was in order. I told him that I was going to go home for a few days before starting south.

I spent the next day visiting with my folks in Paxtang. It took very little time for my traveling itch to get me motivated to get traveling. At about 2230 hours that evening I decided I couldn’t stand it any longer. I called Buddy, woke him from a sound sleep and told him I was leaving within the next few minutes. I filled a quart thermos with coffee, loaded my gear in the trunk of the Healy, and kissed Mom goodbye.

"I'll call you tomorrow after I get to Buddy’s Mom, give Pop a hug and kiss for me."

It was close to 2300 hours when I started the motor. I was happy to be on the road again. I had not gone very far or on any real trips since before Vietnam. The Austin Healy 3000 Mark III purred along the highway effortlessly. Being keyed up, I made it all night with no problems at all. On a secondary road in southern Virginia, I was winding my way through some rolling hills which caused me to down shift every once in a while. During one of the series of shifts, I had reached over quickly, and sharply bumped the palm of my right hand on the shift lever to put the box in a lower gear. Unbelievably, within a few minutes my hand began to swell and after a half an hour right hand had swollen to enormous size. It had swollen so much, that it had actually doubled in size. The fingers had become immobile. The hand looked like a surgical glove that had been blown up like a balloon and was ready to pop. I was in agony. I did not even have the foggiest notion of what the matter was. The hand started hurting so much that I had to reach over and shift with my left hand.

When I arrived in Savannah I called Buddy, he gave me directions to his house. My whole arm was throbbing sorely by then. When we saw one another, I forgot momentarily about my pain. We ran together and embraced in a brotherly hug. It had been over a year since I had laid my eyes on him. It was a moving moment for us both. He looked healthy and in good form. Both of us in different ways had come through the year and made it out alive and unscratched. I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of inadequacy. I had not even lasted out the year in Vietnam. I stood there with brace, cane, and pain, for the first time the possibility of....the idea hit me....that perhaps I wouldn't be flying for the Army, ever again! I tried to supress the thought. I quickly pushed it to a rear compartment of my mind and embraced Buddy again.

I showed him my hand, he promised to take me to the infirmary to have it examined, first thing in the morning. We ate supper and then watched some TV while we talked; all the while I had my hand stuck in a bucket of ice water hoping to ease the pain that thumped in my arm and hand with each beat of my heart. "It’s going to be a living hell trying to make it through the night like this," I thought. I stretched out on the bed on my stomach and dangled my hand in the bucket of ice water again. I prayed that the ice would numb my hand enough, so that I could get a little sleep.

It just did not work! Every once in a while when I did drop off to sleep I would wake up almost immediately, moaning. The moaning is what woke me. I probably was rolling over bumping my hand, and then I would moan and wake up myself and Buddy to boot. I began to lay there and theorize. "Moaning in pain must be an autonomic nervous function of the body. I had never moaned at the hospital, asleep or awake. I was raised not to express pain in a verbal manner."

Neither Buddy nor I got much rest that evening. I could not even eat any breakfast, all I wanted to do was get to the hospital, on post, and have them do something, anything to stop the pain. It was hard for me to believe that my hand had swollen up as big as it had; it was....it was just huge; a very large, unbendable, thing that looked in all aspects like a hand, and unfortunately it was attached to my right arm.

I was the first person to arrive at the hospital's information desk that morning. I told the receptionist my problem and was directed to the emergency room. The people on duty had not even finished their first cup of coffee when I arrived, holding my right hand in an elevated position, that helped to keep it from swelling up more. I noticed that I could control the pain better when awake and having something else to do. I explained my problem to them, they reluctantly left their coffee and called the doctor that was on duty. When he arrived and looked at my hand he nodded his head and then he began to poke at it, trying to locate the point at which he wanted to open it up. I grimaced at the excruciating pain. He casually asked if it hurt and where it hurt the most when touched. He, or rather I, pinpointed to an area toward the bottom left side of the palm in the fleshy pad of my right hand.

I was asked to climb up onto a stainless steel examination table that was covered with a thin foam rubber pad. An arm board was attached to the table and my right arm was taped down.

"This won't take very long, I assure you," said the doctor. One attendant went to a large cupboard and removed a can, which he handed to the doctor. It was an aerosol can of freeze spray, a common topical type of anesthetic, the super cold spray was supposed to freeze, temporarily deadening the surface nerves. I had seen it used in football injuries when I was in school. A female nurse mean while, carried a tray in with some instruments on it, covered by a green cloth marked "sterile". While this was going on I got a firm grasp on the edge of the table with my left hand and gritted my teeth, contemplating what was going to transpire.

The doctor took a scalpel, from the nurse's tray, in one hand and the aerosol can in the other. He sprayed the palm of my hand at the spot I had targeted. He sprayed the spot for about two seconds, no more than that. He then mercilessly sank the scalpel, to the hilt, in my swollen hand. Puss literally erupted from the incised wound. It was like a pent up volcano erupting and spewing pus lava from the opening as if it were being pumped out under great pressure. Simultaneously I squeezed the table edge, which appeared to bend under my vise-like grip.

"Now, that didn't hurt did it?"

"Oh shit! Who are you trying to kid?"

"You didn't feel anything did you?"

"I sure as hell did, you might as well have sprayed your own hand for all the good that spray did me."

I rose up and looked at the table edge were the left hand had gripped it, incredibly it was bent.

Along with the puss a piece of shrapnel had popped out of the wound. I was not even aware that there had been any shrapnel in my hand. The doctor took another instrument from the tray. It looked like stainless steel bent nosed pliers of some sort. He paused for a moment and then gently pressed down on my palm around the opening that he had made, forcing out more puss. He inserted the jaws of his tongs and spread the incision wider. The nurse had brought in a small bottle of packing material from another cabinet and handed it to the doctor. He took and snipped off three inches or so and began to push the packing through the opening in my hand. He packed it lightly, just enough to hold it open, he left a piece trailing out. It was that piece that would allow any further secretions a way to drain the wound and not re-infect it. A bandage was then wrapped around my hand. I was given a prescription for some antibiotics and a pain killer and was sent to the pharmacy.

My right hand was beginning to feel better, even by the time I had reached the pharmacy. The internal pressure had been released, even though the hand was still enlarged greatly it felt good by comparison. This episode caused me to wonder how many other hidden injuries I might have, if any. Time would be the only way to get an answer to that question. In the almost ten months since I had been shot down the last time, I had thought I had experienced hurting. Up until then it had just been practice. Thank God that we have such poor memory of pain.

I drove back to Buddy's house and fell asleep exhausted, while waiting for him to get back from his daily duty at Army Post.

I woke up to the noise of Buddy coming home. We had a few beers while we barbecued some chicken on the grill on the patio. We sat watching the smoke from the grill and reminisced, swapping war stories. I hardly remembered anything from the day before, so I probably repeated myself, if I did Buddy was too polite to tell me. I was somewhat embarrassed at the previous night’s ordeal, it never came up, thank goodness, I was glad and relieved that it had not.

It took no time at all after I asked about Katie for Buddy to ask me if I had been writing Allie.

"Yes, I've been writing. I like the girl. I'm looking forward to meeting her. What more can I say? I don't suppose that you have met her yet, have you?"

"No, but Katie tells me she's really a nice girl, the kind you might like to take home to Momma,” he added.

"I'm sure she is if Katie said so. I've come to know her, from her letters. She's going with some guy at her college, so hope I'm not getting my expectations up too high. I've found that it doesn't pay."

"Katie's just prejudiced toward Army Aviators and thinks her friend would be missing out on a good thing."

"Maybe she's right Buddy, but then again I'm not going to get too excited. I haven't had much good luck with women….period!"

"I remember.!"

We stuffed ourselves with barbecued chicken and baked beans, potato salad and beer. We were feeling no pain when evening approached.

"We'll be belching and farting all night, I thought."

Buddy seemed to sense that I would love to do a little flying while I was visiting him. Fort Stewart was nearby with Hunter Army Airfield only thirty-five miles from Savannah.

"How would you like to go for a spin with me tomorrow, if I it can arranged. It shouldn't be too hard with your being an Army Aviator and my being an IP (Instructor Pilot). I know you’re not on flight status, but I could let you get some stick time."

"That would be wonderful Buddy. I haven't been able to fly in a ship since I was shot down last January. I take that back there were a few med-evac rides, they don't count. I'd love it! I just don't know what to say. It's hard to express how much I miss flying and more specifically Army flying."

We talked into the night, not wanting to lose one minute of the precious little bit of time that we were spending together. There is a strange bond between men that have lived through a war fighting in combat that no other relationship has. Its funny how close two men can become in a friendship; the relationship is totally different than a man woman relationship. I really don't believe that “woman to woman” relationships have the exact same sort of closeness that men share, perhaps I'm being chauvinistic or unrealistic, but rarely in United States history have women served in combat. There is a bond that develops which is stronger than family. There is also that specialness that all men, who have been in combat, seem to share in common, a closeness and comradely of a shared life and death experience, a closeness to death and dying I could hardly wait until the morning.

We flew the next morning. It was just like riding a bicycle, once you have it mastered it is easy to come back to, you never forget how. I enjoyed it immensely, although it did cause me some uneasy thoughts during the day, not about my ability though. What if I couldn't fly for the Army any more? What would I do? This was my life. This was my dream come true. I prayed that it would not be taken away from me.

We went out for dinner that evening, Buddy showed me around Savannah a little, not that he had been there very long, but certainly longer than me. We talked as we ate, making plans for the drive to Arkansas. We figured that we would be able to make it in one long day's drive. We calculated that if we would leave in the morning, around 0400 hours that we would arrive in Stuttgart by early evening without any problem. We could eat dinner there the next night.

"Remember that one time when we went to Meacham Field in Dallas / Fort Worth area, to fly fixed wing with Sully that time, Buddy?"

"How could I forget? You guys took me up against my better judgment. We weren't even supposed to be flying fixed-wing during training. You clowns put me in the back seat of that Cessna 150 and went into a spin and got me half sick."

"It was fun though, we really didn't mean to get you sick."

"I hadn't ever been in a small fixed-wing before."

"Remember how we went to Cow Town after flying, looking to eat at Cattlemen's. We couldn't find the place or something."

"Yea, we ended up walking around and sticking our heads in the door of the Mexican cantina where the Mariachi Band was playing. We stuck our heads in and the whole place got suddenly so quiet you could have heard an ant fart."

"We got the heck out of there fast enough. Then Sully decided to visit one of his old hangouts that dump! That restroom was so narrow that a wall hit up against each side of the toilet. Cripes you had to stand sideways to knock the dew off your lily."

"The women in there had to be some of the ugliest in captivity. Ol' Sully could really pick em."

"Yup, I was glad to get the heck out of that place. I felt like I had bugs crawling all over me for about an hour after we left there."

"Remember that Johnson kid, the one whose father was a one star general. The poor bugger was shunned by most everybody because of his old man."

"He wasn’t too swift. He used to hang out with us quite a bit after you and a couple of the others started going to Denton, TX all the time, he wasn't such a bad guy, just lonely like the rest of us.

"It's really strange the way things work out. We have had what some people would call a lifetime full of experiences in the past couple of years. I don’t believe I'd trade any of them, Buddy."

"I think you’re probably right."

"Did I tell you about the one nurse at, Hickam Air Force Base, Hospital, in the Phillipines?"

"I can't say that you have."

"She, when she saw me she called me 'Doctor Zhivago'." "Doctor who," I replied.

"You look like Doctor Zhivago, you know from the movie, 'Doctor Zhivago'."

"No, I'm afraid I don't know."

"Well you do," she said as she turned and walked away, apparently satisfied the she had told me so. It was months afterward until I found out who she was talking about, and then I thought she must have been on something I don't look anything like Omar Shriff and I’m certainly not Egyptian
."
"I'm just glad that I didn't have to go through all that you did, Sam."

I shrugged, "I just took it as it came along Buddy. You would have done the same thing, I'm sure."

"Speaking of that Johnson fellow, he rode to Fort Worth with me one time; he had begged me to go. We went to the 'Party Line', a 'non-alcohol' after hours club where people would go to dance. They had a telephone on each table and a big schematic on the wall so you could look and see who you wanted to call. We called this redhead that was at a table by herself. We were invited to her table. Somehow the subject of hypnosis came up and they learned that I had hypnotized people before. Well, before you know it I got roped into a bet that I couldn't hypnotize the redhead. We ended up going to some flea bag motel nearby where I hypnotized her in nothing flat."

Bob leaned toward me conspiratorially and asked, "What did you do then?"

"I won the bet, that's all. They, Johnson and this girl didn't believe I could hypnotize her. I did it. I could have taken advantage of her, but that would have been unethical. You see, I take my hypnosis very seriously."

We had a great time that evening reliving some of our shared and unshared experiences. The next day would be a long one driving to Arkansas so we left the restaurant, drove back to the house in the Healy, and then chatted for a short time before turning in for the night.

My hand felt 100% better than it had the previous day, so I believed that I would be able to sleep well. Instead, I laid awake thinking about some of the guys I had gone to flight school with and had been close to. I wondered, as I called out their names in my mind, their faces unchanged by the passage of time, what they were doing, where they were at and even if they were still alive. I had heard little, if anything about my friends. One had lost an eye from a bullet fragment, one had been shot through a leg, and then me; there had to be others or we had a very lucky class. None of my silent questions were answered that night.

We left early in the morning and made it into Stuttgart, as planned in time for supper. I had noticed a sign as we came to the town limits it read: "Welcome to Stuttgart the Rice and Duck Capital of the World". I followed Buddy, hoping that he knew the way to Katie's mother's house. He turned down main street and acted like he knew where he was going, I just followed and we were soon there. Katie had obviously given him some good directions.

When Katie saw the two cars pull into the driveway she ran from the house and embraced Buddy, almost before he could get out of the car. I just sat back in the Healy and kind of enjoyed seeing the two of them reunited after a year's separation. Katie was sobbing for joy; Buddy was smiling from ear to ear, a pleased look across his day old growth of whiskers on his angular face.

I got out of my car, back and legs stiff, and walked over to the happy couple. Katie turned toward me and hugged me briefly and kissed me on the cheek. She looked me over and tears again welled up in her eyes. I believe she was happy that I was all right and even happier that Buddy had returned unscathed. I was glad he had too.

After a few more awkward minutes of smiling and looking at one another we went in the house. Katie's mom was prepared for us. In a matter of minutes we were seated and eating supper. Katie told me that Allie would not be down from Jonesboro until Friday afternoon, I'd have to wait until then to meet her.

I felt like a fifth wheel, a position a guess I should have been used to by then. I didn't want to be a burden to anyone, but knew my presence was limiting to the two love birds. I made myself scarce, exploring the town and surrounding countryside.

Friday afternoon the phone ran, Katie up the receiver and it was Allie. She would come by to meet Buddy and me very shortly. I was getting nervous, or maybe excited. I wondered if Allie was too. We had seen one another's pictures, had written extensively to each other, we could even claim we knew one another somewhat. But, when the car door slammed outside and Katie went to open the front door of the house; when a pert little blue eyed dark haired girl in tight blue jeans and pony tail and blue oxford cloth shirt came bounding into the room, I felt strangely inadequate, nervous and bungling.

I stared at her. She stared back. She appeared to be as nervous as I was. Katie broke the silence.

"Allie, this is Buddy, and here is Sam. Buddy and Sam this is Allie."

She had stopped looking at me for a moment and looked Buddy up and down and then returned her gaze to me. A few uneasy moments passed by.

"Hello, Allie. I'm pleased to finally meet you."

"Same here," said Buddy.
We began to loosen up. The four of us visited and then Allie went back home to clean up after her dive home from Jonesboro.

Allie had no sooner driven away than Buddy started up with questions.

"Well! What did you think of Allie? I hope you two hit it off."

"Wouldn't that be great," Katie chimed in.

They were asking questions so fast I couldn't even start to answer them all.

"Yes, she was pretty. Yes, I liked her. Yes, I liked her a lot. Yes, I 'd like to get to know her. Yes I'd like to take her out, but I believe Allie may have some her own ideas and input into these questions."

"Katie's going to call her in a couple of minutes and ask her what she thinks about you."

"Whoa. I don't want something ruined before it even starts; don't push her."

"We'll be leaving tomorrow after the wedding reception. You should stay here in town and spend a few days with her."

Things were being thrown at me too fast. I did not know how this girl felt about me, or would feel about me. And these two match makers wanted me to stick around, in a strange little town in Arkansas, and woo a girl that was going steady with some guy at Arkansas State University. It just didn't seem right to me.

Like it or not the two of us, Allie and I, would be forced together. I did not like it, even allowing for the circumstances. I just hoped that Allie would not feel as pressured as I did. Maybe she knew Katie well enough to know what to expect from her.

"Yea, Katie has probably tried to fix her up with guys a zillion times before and she's used to it," I told myself.

The four of us went out for an early supper that evening before the wedding rehearsal and had a pretty good time. I was becoming more relaxed as the minutes passed by.

"Gee, what stuff a person has to go through for a friend?" It was getting easier though.

The picture that Allie had sent me had not been a put on, she was pretty if not prettier than the picture I had. I was looking forward to seeing her in her Maid of Honor gown. Hopefully I would be able to stay a day or two after the wedding. I would just have to wait and see.

Buddy and I went out later that evening for a pseudo bachelor's party. There was not a whole lot happening in Stuttgart, Arkansas that evening, what ever action there was, we figured we had found it. But then the idea behind a bachelor's party is just one last fling out with the boys as a bachelor. After the next day, Buddy would be a married man when and if he went out with the boys again.

Saturday morning Buddy and I left early and drove around for a little while. He was understandably nervous, more so as the time for the wedding drew nearer. The wedding was supposed to start at ten o’clock; we arrived at the church right after 0930. We stopped by katie’s house, after the girls left, and slipped into our dress blues.

I must say, the two of us looked handsome as we marched into the church. All eyes were on us as we walked in and continued on toward a small room at the right front of the sanctuary. It felt great to be in uniform again, letting people know we were military, working for our country and proud of it.

I peeked out of the door and saw the groomsmen, in tuxedos, busily escorting guests to pews. The church was filling up rapidly. Flowers decorated the raised platform in the front; bows of pale coral color decorated the ends of the pews. Wow, it looked like ol' Buddy was really going to go through with this after all. I caught a glimpse of Allie and some of the bride’s maids, way to the back of the church, peeping in, like I was. Buddy sat behind me, a tiny wisp of nervous perspiration, or cold sweat beading on his forehead. I turned toward him and smiled.

"This is it big fella." He raised himself up from his seat and came toward me. I hugged him and assured him he was doing the right thing. There was a knock at the door, it was cracked open and we received the signal to come out.

"We're on Bud!"

We marched in smartly, stopping just short of the right front side of the alter steps and came to attention. We were angled toward the minister, waiting for the music to begin. As the organ swelled and the music of the Bridal March filled the chamber and we turned to face the bride and her processional.

The girls all looked fantastic as they seemingly floated down the aisle. Buddy and I remained at attention in our dress uniforms until everyone was in place.

The ceremony was short and sweet. Buddy was a married man. We stuck around for the usual wedding pictures before going to the reception.

It all happened so fast. Allie looked great. I was at a loss Buddy and Katie were getting ready to leave. I helped load their gifts and Katie's things in a U-Haul trailer, while they had their first domestic discussion. I was not sure what I was going to do after Buddy left. Go back to the hospital I figured.

After Katie and Buddy left for their honeymoon, Allie asked me if I would like to stay for an extra day, I could stay at her mother's place. I was hesitant, Katie had more than likely pressured her into asking me, but I agreed. I felt out of place. I stayed at her mother's and step-father's farm in a spare room. I kept asking myself, what in the world I was doing there. Her step-dad, a rice farmer, viewed me as a city slicker, because I was not from Arkansas and I had hair on my face.

I had a good time, that is, the time I spent with Allie. I was relieved when I finally left town and started the long trek back to the hospital in Pennsylvania. I had felt like I was under intense scrutiny the entire time I had spent in Allie's house. In a way I couldn't blame them. A disabled veteran, a borderline clown, comes to a wedding of one of your daughter's friends and ends up staying at your house. I wondered if Allie had mentioned all the writing that we had done. We were not exactly strangers, even with not having seen one another in person.

AN AWARD IN TIME SAVES NINE-BUT I'D RATHER TRAVEL

It was good to be back on the road again, away from the pressure and out of a situation which I had been tossed into. I drove the eleven hundred plus miles, non-stop. I was too cheap to stop at a motel. The scenery had been beautiful. As I had promised I was back for the Honors and Retreat Ceremony early.

The Honors and Retreat Ceremony was scheduled for the late afternoon of Friday, 27 October 1967. I knew that I had been recommended for a number of awards, Silver Star- two times, DFC, etc, that I had never received; I had no clue what this one was for. Air Medals were sort of an automatic thing; we received an Air medal for each twenty-five hours of combat flying. But I was anxious to find out what it was going to be. My other awards had been given to me at small, sort of, casual ceremonies and sometimes at my bedside.

I dressed in my Officer's greens; I made sure that my mustache and hair were neatly trimmed for the occasion. There were a number of men that were to receive citations at the retreat, it turned out that I was receiving the highest award that anyone would get that day.

Most of the ambulatory patients were present on the, well kept, front lawn of the hospital grounds. Quite a few members of the hospital's staff were also present. Colonel Serfas, the hospital's CO, was doing the honors. My name was called over the PA system that had been set up. I proudly stepped forward, on the grass, and stood at attention facing Colonel Serfas. Chills of pride rand up and down my spine, my eyes became clouded with a mist of tears. I hoped they were not visible. Colonel Serfas began to read the citation:

HEADQUARTERS
1ST CAVALRY DIVISION (AIRMOBILE)
APO San Francisco 96490

GENERAL ORDERS 10 August 1967
NUMBER 4575

AWARD OF THE DISTINGUISHED FLYING CROSS

1. TC 320. The following AWARD is announced.

ROLLASON, SAMUEL H. W3154252 WARRANT OFFICER W-1 United States Army Troop A, 1st Squadron, 9th Cavalry

Awarded: Distinguished Flying Cross
Date action: 17 December 1966
Theater: Republic of Vietnam
Reason: For extraordinary heroism and gallantry while participating in aerial flight. Warrant Officer Rollason distinguished himself by heroism in action on 17 December 1966, while serving as pilot of an OH-13 scout helicopter during combat operations near Bong Song, Republic of Vietnam. When a friendly infantry company encountered a North Vietnamese Army unit of undetermined size, Warrant Officer Rollason was called upon to pinpoint the origin of the enemy automatic weapons fire. Upon locating the fortified emplacements, Warrant Officer Rollason, while hovering at treetop level under heavy enemy fire, dropped hand grenades into the enemy fortifications and directed his door gunner to take the emplacements under fire. While destroying the bunkers, his aircraft received several hits in the main rotor blade, forcing him to return to the rear for another helicopter. Returning to the battle area, Warrant Officer Rollason continued to report enemy positions and destroyed several more emplacements until his team leader was shot down. He then coordinated and directed the consolidation of ground elements, sustaining several more hits from the enemy fire. Only until another scout team relieved him did Warrant Officer Rollason leave the battle area in his battered aircraft. Warrant Officer Rollason's display of personal bravery and devotion to duty is in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and reflects great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
Authority: By direction of the President, under the provisions of the Act of Congress, approved 2 July 1926.
FOR THE COMMANDER:

OFFICIAL: GEORGE W. CASEY, Colonel, GS ,

Chief of Staff DONALD W. CONNELLY, LTC, AGC Adjutant General

I shook the outstretched hand of the Colonel. He stepped forward and pinned the medal on my uniform. I then did a brisk rearward step back into the line, as he moved along the line to the next man.

My left leg, with its brace, was tiring from standing at attention, but I was not going to let anybody know about it. Now that I knew what my award was I was devastated. The fact that no press was there to cover this event took away my moment in the sun; one of the highest military awards given by our nation, and I was diminished because no one would ever know, except for the few that were present. In my peripheral vision I saw my Major, the CO of the Medical Holding Company, standing watching us. I was thrilled with my DFC. I continued to stand at attention, even though I wanted very much to jump up and down and hold the medal in my sweaty little hand and look at it. Lost in my own thoughts, remembering the actual day-long encounter on 17 December 1966, again who ever had written me up had watered it down extensively, but then that seemed to be the norm.

After the Retreat had ended the hospital liaison officer came up to me and apologized for the absence of the media. He told me that since they were not sure if I would be back for the Honors and Retreat Ceremony, the press had not been contacted.

“Sir,” I said, "No disrespect intended, but….Why in hell did they ask me to be back if they thought I wasn't going to be back for the ceremony? I told your people definitively that I would be here for the retreat. I guess it makes no difference now?”

I was somewhat disappointed. As I turned to leave the front lawn the Major, CO of Medical Holding, came up and was very buddy, buddy. I guess my time had come, he saw how wrong he had been about me.

Back to the old grind PT everyday. I was making progress with my exercises, I was up to fifty-five pounds on my progressive resistance exercises, unfortunately my knees were no more stable than before. The doctors told me to continue building up the amount of weight, for some reason trying to make me believe that my knees would magically tighten up.

Then there was: golf, visiting friends, spending time at the hospital's small library, and other miscellaneous nothings of my existence. Taking some leave had really improved my outlook, I hadn't had enough though. The travel in itself had been refreshing. I was looking forward to taking some more leave before too much longer. I talked with Marty about the possibility of going to Japan with me on leave. Neither of us had experienced the joy of an R&R while in Vietnam and the time I had spent in Japan had all been on my back. Marty and I decided to go to his parent's home in Cold Spring Harbor for the weekend. We could discuss a Japan trip while we were on the road.

I was ready to get away from the hospital again, even after only having been back for a couple of days. After the pressures of the wedding and the excitement of receiving my award, I was looking forward to getting away to some quiet place and just unwind for a day or so. Marty had told me about the great seafood and lobster, one of my weaknesses in the area of food that could be found in the area of Cold Spring Harbor. I was ready to go.

We arrived in mid afternoon, having missed the majority of the heavy traffic from the city. We stopped at his families' big old two story home only long enough to drop off our things and freshen up a bit before going down into the town. I was pleasantly surprised. Cold Spring Harbor was a typical, small, New England style fishing village located on Cold Spring Harbor off of Long Island Sound.

As we drove up to the restaurant that Marty had recommended, we saw a fellow, with a pronounced limp, walking toward the door just ahead of us.

"I'll be darn, its Toby, I haven't seen him in years!"

"Who is Toby?"

"The guy walking in the door there, that's who."

"Obviously, - smart ass."

"His father is managing editor of 'Time' magazine at the present. We've known each other for ages. He's got a withered leg. I know you were probably wondering about his limp."

Toby joined us for dinner. The promised lobster and chowder were delicious. Afterwards the three of us cruised around town and stopped for a few drinks before calling it a night. Toby was a fine fellow and fun to have along with us.

Back at Marty's place we discussed plans for going to Japan.

We decided that we would try to leave sometime around the end of the third week in December; we couldn't make up our minds as to whether we wanted to leave just before Christmas or just after. We would just play it by ear.

When I returned to the hospital the doctors were beginning to hint around about the possibility of an operation, and what operation, they would perform if they did decide to go ahead and do it. My main doctor was Jim Sergent, he would be the one to make a final judgment on the matter. Major Gunderson, chief of orthopedics, never agreed with Sergent, and it seemed that every time they had grand rounds that the two of them would argue about what should be done with me.

"A 'Slocum Procedure' would be the way to go with this one, a good dynamic repair," said Sergent.

"I wouldn't operate on his knee with a ten foot pole," replied Gunderson. Rick Sullivan, another orthopedic surgeon, of less experience than the others, usually remained silent.

It went on like that every time they looked at me. Not too encouraging. I always told them that I had something to say in the matter, seeing that it was my leg.

"While I've got you guys here, I'd like to check it out with you about taking some convalescent leave, around Christmas time."

"Yea, what about it, we have nothing to do about your taking leave."

"Bull, you guys can recommend leave. You’re not planning to slice on me or anything, which would prevent me from traveling, are you?"

"No."

"Great, I'll make plans then. I'll also send you a card from Tokyo."

The plans had already been made, I just wanted to do my duty and ask them, mostly out of courtesy. I think that Rick would have liked to be able to go with us.

It always struck me as odd, when thinking about Vietnam, how little we all actually talked about it. We, as patients, were what we were, because of Vietnam and our intimate association with that country and its hostile inhabitants. Many of my friends, really I guess most of us, had left part of ourselves there in that country in various and innumerable places. Whether the part that was left was physical, psychological, or both mattered little. It seemed that it just was not a topic that was talked about openly. There were times when it was talked about, like when specific questions were asked, or the occasional referral to how a patient became a patient. I never heard regretful or blameful talk about it. No grudges, or very few seemed to surface at Valley Forge, while I was there.

I was, by late November of 1967, after Thanksgiving, beginning to question why I was still in the hospital at all. My femur was healed, although the left leg was short. My right wrist still had a lump on it, not as sore as it used to be, probably because of the fight. My back hurt constantly like my legs, but I was learning to live with it. The brace on my lower left leg did not hamper me from driving, so it certainly wouldn't keep me from flying. The brace actually gave me some support to stabilize my knee and made me feel better when walking. Why why was I still in the hospital? No one would answer that question for me.

Marty and I had made arrangements with, my friend and anesthesiologist, Bill to drive us to Dover, Delaware to the Air Force Base. He drove us there in his Chrysler New Yorker. We were planning to take a military hop to Japan. Bill dropped us off by the terminal when we bid him farewell and thanked him for driving us there. We had heard many stories about taking military hops, we were about to find out first hand, if any of them were true. I contacted flight operations by telephone and inquired about what, if any, flights were going to the Far East. We were in luck. It would be a number of hours, but there would be no problem getting a flight, not even the slightest chance of being bumped off of the flight by someone else. To top it off this particular flight was going to go all the way to Japan; we wouldn't even have to switch flights anywhere.

We retired to the Officers Club to relax and wait until the ETD (Estimated Time of Departure) was closer. There were a number of Air Force Pilots there in the club that afternoon. We talked and swapped flying experiences. There were a few fighter pilots there. When they heard that I had flown helicopter reconnaissance, they insisted on talking to me. They were astonished that we, the Scout pilots, would hover in and around areas that they had been bombing and strafing at very high speed. I just told them we were all a little crazy in the Scouts.

"Well, you know somebody had to do it, and it sure beat walking," I said.

We left the Officers Club and shuffled over to flight operations to check in. We each bought a box lunch to take on board for the long flight. Our ship was a C-141 Transport and, as it so happened, Marty and I were the only two passengers. We secured ourselves in the seats in anticipation of take off. The seats were merely red nylon, stretched loosely across tubular aluminum bench-like frames. Seat backs were of the same material, the backs were perfectly perpendicular. They looked as if they may have been designed by the same fellow that designed either the "Rack" or the "Iron Maiden", because they were sheer torture for someone like me with a constantly hurting back. I couldn't complain too much, shoot, I was only paying for the box lunch.

After take off we unstrapped, and could move around or lay down or what ever, so it was not all that bad. It was hard to estimate how fast the aircraft was flying, there were no windows from which to gaze. I was not too fond of that. Occasionally I would go forward to the cockpit and say hello, look outside for a while and that sort of thing. The pilots enjoyed the chats since I too was a pilot. It seemed to take forever to get to Alaska.

From Alaska we flew to an air base near Tokyo. We were able to get a taxi, right from the Base, which took us directly to the military hotel. The Sanno Hotel was located near the Akasaka Strip right behind one of Tokyo's Hilton Hotels.

I could hardly believe my eyes. I could not comprehend that what I was seeing was a military billeting hotel. There were a number of restaurants just off the lobby. There was a small shopping area with a number of stores. There was a barber shop, a beauty salon, and a massage parlor. In the lower levels of the hotel there were night clubs complete with slot machines; slots also lined some of the halls on the main floor.

A Japanese bellboy had carried our luggage in and placed it by the front desk. We looked around a few more minutes and noticed there were even banks in the hotel. We checked in and were given a double room. It was rather Spartan very well kept good, clean, and had a nice view of part of the city from its eight floor location. I handed the bellboy a tip then we sat down on our beds and tried to plan what we should do next.

I believed the first order of business was to get some money exchanged for some Yen. Anything that we might want to do would require money. The exchange rate was about three hundred sixty yen to the United States Dollar. Items in the hotel and its stores were marked in dollar values; we felt that we would like to explore the area around the hotel just then.

It had been late afternoon when we had arrived so we didn't walk too far, just far enough to get a little exercise. We came back to the Sanno and had a gorgeous seven course meal in the Genghis Khan Room, one of the hotel's restaurants. The meal was cooked at our table. We sipped on Sake, kept warm on the skillet-like cooking surface in the center of the table. After dinner we checked out the hotel more closely and tried our luck on several of the slot machines.

The night club in the basement level was rocking to the tunes played by two Japanese brothers, or at least the name of their act implied that they were brothers. They played popular contemporary, music on traditional Japanese instruments. The instrument that they used, the Samisen, is a three stringed affair, with a triangular sound box attached to an exceptionally long neck. The sound was an almost eerie cross between a banjo and a guitar and was played with a very large ivory pick called a plectrum that looked more like a big ivory chisel. The music was most enjoyable.

We returned to our room briefly and gazed out across the multitude of lights along the Akasaka strip. I laid down, Marty paced about the room as we made plans for the next day. We wanted to walk around this area of the city and see what there was to see. We had been told that there was a Shinto Monkey Temple close by, we definitely had to check it out, and then we would go down town to the Ginza.

We left our room, even though we were tired we had no intention of wasting one minute of our leave. We went across the street to a disco, which ironically happened to be run by a guy from Philadelphia, he always had a cigar stuck in his mouth. We thought it would be a great place to girl watch if nothing else, neither Marty nor I were very much into dancing that night.

The music was mostly American and British; the thing that surprised us most was that no couples were dancing, even though the dance floor was crowded. All the guys were on one side of the dance floor, and all the girls on the other. Guys were dancing with guys and girls with girls. We were not sure what to think or just where to sit. Was this a queer joint, or what? Was this....just part of the culture? We came to believe, by watching, that it was or must have been a combination of the two. I danced once, with a girl, and became the center of everyone's attention. We left the disco and went to get a good nights rest.

Even the short time that we had been in Japan, up to that point, had impressed me. It was strange to be in a place so obviously foreign, everyone speaking another language was only one aspect. It was totally different from Vietnam, if it had not been for the Japanese people though the city could easily have been somewhere in the United States. In Vietnam we were almost always surrounded by Americans, we talked to Americans, ate with Americans, did everything with them or near large numbers of Americans. Here there were few Caucasians and even fewer blacks or other races. It was strange in a way, but then that was part of what made it all so exciting.

The next morning I went to the lobby and walked around in some of the shop corridors. I noticed that the barber shop was open so I went in. The prices were so unbelievably low I decided to get a hair cut and a shave, both together were less than one dollar, it was incredible. I seriously considered not shaving myself for the duration of my stay in the Sanno. A guy could get used to such luxury.

Marty had not come down stairs by the time I had finished at the barber shop, he must have been oversleeping I told myself. I went to check out the public bath (massage parlor). The few times I had been to a massage parlor in Saigon had proved to be very relaxing and enjoyable. It was only about three and one half dollars, definitely inexpensive. I paid and was then escorted by an attractive Japanese woman to a small private room where I was told to undress. Next I was taken to a steam room where I spent ten minutes in the moisture laden hot air. When I came out the same girl was waiting for me, she took me back to the room, where she, through gestures, motioned for me to get in the large, square, tiled tub. The room was spotlessly clean and completely tiled in the same material as the tub. The girl came to me after I had soaked for a few minutes and motioned for me to take a seat on a small stool that was near one corner of the room. I was scrubbed gently from head to toe, with special care and attention paid to my tender areas. I climbed back in the tub where she rinsed me off. From the tub she led me to a massage table where I laid down on my stomach. She performed miracles on my sore tense muscles. If I were going to be disabled and hurt all the time, this kind of treatment could make it all bearable. I turned over and she began to work on the front of my body.

It is unfortunate that most westerners do not realize that these bath houses are an integral part of the Japanese culture, society, and history. Long before European man even began to realize that bathing was a safe practice, the Japanese were enjoying baths and public bath houses, with just this sort of pampering. When she was finished giving me a massage, she asked me if I needed anything else, a normal question for their culture, I responded, "No thank you, not this morning."

Ol' Marty had no idea of what oriental delights he was missing by sleeping late. I called the room and asked him if he was ready to eat some breakfast. I felt like a million bucks after my hair cut, shave and massage and was ready for a good breakfast and an interesting day.

We walked over to the Monkey Temple; I snapped pictures of the vendor's stands, just outside in the breezeway. I continued to take pictures as we walked into the temple courtyard and approached the main part of the shrine. A number of people were busy tying pieces of paper, which we learned were prayers, to the branches of small trees in the temple courtyard. It was getting close to New Year that time of year is very family oriented in Japan. Many of the prayers were for deceased relatives.

After leaving the temple, we walked down a hill through beautifully manicured gardens to the street below where I flagged a taxi. The taxi pulled up to the curb and the door opened wide, all by itself. We got in. The driver flipped a switch on the dashboard and the door closed. The cab was immaculately clean. The cabby understood some English, so there was no problem with communication. I was beginning to realize that there was not as great a language barrier as I had first thought that there would be. Unlike European languages, German, French, Spanish etc, the Oriental languages have no cognates. Congantes are words that sound like ours; that is other than those that had been adapted into the culture.

Marty and I eased out of the cab, after paying, and moved amid the throngs of people that were hurriedly scurrying along the sidewalks. Some were wearing surgical type masks. We did not know whether they were wearing them to protect themselves or those around them. We had driven past the Japanese Emperor's, Imperial Palace, on our way to the Ginza and knew for certain that we wanted to get a closer look at it later on. We walked along looking in shop after shop. The eating establishments were interesting, because every menu item was displayed in full, ultra realistic samples, all plastic. I thought that they were real when I had first seen them; they looked delicious, but then I figured it would be too expensive to have real food displayed, not to mention, it would not last very long before starting to look bad.

I needed to take a dump and did not know where to go. I stopped a Caucasian looking man and asked politely where I could find a WC. He told me there were public restrooms in a building that he pointed out. I entered the rest room, there was a toilet which I will describe as American, and then there was another porcelain fixture that sort of looked like a toilet. I called it the Oriental John. It was sunken into and level with the floor. "When in Japan," I thought. It was much easier to take a dump using the recessed toilet. I imagined it had its draw backs, somebody with a leg missing, for example, might have a rough time squatting over it.

We had lunch at one of the many restaurants and then slipped into what appeared to be a night club, to try a Japanese beer. It was incredibly dark when we entered, music blared from speakers mounted on every red carpeted wall. We ordered a beer and then sat in a booth where we were immediately joined by two pretty hostesses that started to massage our legs, all three of them. We finished our drinks while being stroked, the hostesses tried to hustle us, they had no success.

Back on the streets we took another taxi and went to Tokyo Tower. Tokyo Tower is similar in appearance and construction to the Eifel Tower. It is a good bit taller though and is used for television transmissions and other antennae. We spent hours touring the displays of electronic gadgetry on the lower levels of the tower's base and eventually took the elevator to the top of the structure. The view was stupendous. Below us was spread the largest city in the world, looking, from the top of the tower as if it were some huge model train set up. Tokyo harbor lay to the east, with its ships moving about like toys in a tub. Far to the south west we could see Mt. Fuji, its 3790 meters (12,388 feet) towering over and dominating the countryside. We could see the Komazawa Olympic Park, the National Olympic Field, elevated highways and tramways and mile after mile of city. It was unbelievable, breathe taking and awesome to see the evidence of the eleven plus million people that lived there in that city. Even from the elevation where we were at, on the 333 meters high, about 1088 feet tower, we could not see all the way to the north end of the city.

We reluctantly came down the tower; nearby we found a pub called the "Gas Light", an American owned establishment. It turned out to be a rather international watering hole. Businessmen and travelers from all over the world were there. The girl behind the bar was from Holland, I fell in love with her on sight. Everyone that we came in contact with at the “Gas Light” either spoke English or was practicing speaking English; that was the case with a number of Japanese that frequented the place.

Marty and I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. I sat gawking at the Dutch girl, women, whatever. Marty just kind of sat and smiled, his Stan Laurel smile, at no one in particular. The building was pretty crowded, people sat at every table. The room was long and narrow, so it was easy to watch people that were across the room. There were groups of Japanese and other Orientals, Chinese and Korean, all were intermingled with Caucasians; and they all sounded as if they were practicing speaking English, which must have been the national past time.

We were invited to join one of these mixed groups and met some of the “Gas Light” regulars. We learned that some of the patrons were Americans, working for American owned companies in the Tokyo area. Some were Japanese that worked for either United States owned companies, or Japanese companies, or their affiliates. There were engineers, electronics experts, importers and exporters, and teachers. One man at our table, he was approaching middle age, was teaching conversational English at Sophie University there in Tokyo. We sat and talked for hours. I mostly enjoyed listening; I was just completely satisfied and entertained being quiet, listening to the various accents, watching, and learning, so I did just that. I had the feeling that we would be frequenting the “Gas Light” quite often during our stay in Tokyo.

I was personally getting hungrier than I particularly wanted to be, so I suggested we go get something to eat. The others thought it a capital idea and suggested the Akasaka Misano Steak House, near the Sanno, known for its Kobi Beef.

The meal was out of sight, the rice fattened Kobi beef was the most flavorful I had ever tasted. The conversation, started at the “Gas Light,” continued as if it had never been interrupted. Here I was, still just a kid and hitting the international scene in Tokyo, I was impressed, I was glad in a way, that I had the good sense to keep my thoughts mostly to myself.

"Why don't you come back to Tokyo, Sam and teach English when you get out of your military," said Seiichi, a Japanese man who worked in the export department of an international electronics firm.

"I'll have to wait to answer a question like that Seiichi. It seems to be a very attractive and exciting idea. Even in the short time that I have been here in your country, I have grown very fond of it."

The time was getting late when we finished eating. We drained the last of our Sake and left the restaurant. We parted company outside, knowing we would all meet again in the near future at the “Gas Light.” The day had been a long and very enjoyable one for me. Although I needed the sleep, I wished I had the energy to keep going longer.

I lay awake and thought about some of the things I had learned that evening. I had been told that most Orientals had trouble distinguishing any accent in spoken English, which was one of the reasons that they liked to practice speaking English especially with Americans. Anyone speaking English was doing just that, speaking English. If you were a white man speaking English you could be of any white nationality. I found that interesting. I didn't know if it was true or not but...

I started the next day the same as I had the previous one, minus the hair cut and then had breakfast. We went back to the Ginza Street did some shopping. I was asked by an aunt and uncle to pick up a couple of items for them and I wanted to get that done and out of the way. My aunt wanted some pearls and my uncle wanted a Seiko automatic watch. I was very happy when I got their shopping over with.

While we were in the Ginza area we tried another public bath. It was good, but I preferred the one at our hotel. We ate a quick meal before going back to the Sanno to stash our packages.

OLD YEAR'S EVE

The light of sunrise broke through the curtained windows of the hotel room, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. As I gazed through the windows of the building, while dressing, the city skyline was silhouetted against the brightness. On one of the buildings nearby, the offices of a heavy equipment company, was a replica of a bulldozer that covered the entire roof. In the morning light the bulldozer glowed with a reddish hue in the flood of sunlight. This was surely a magnificent beginning to the last day of 1967.

I seemed to be developing an early morning routine which I altered very little with the passing of days. I finished my shave and bath down stairs and went on to breakfast in one of the hotel's restaurants. I sat at my usual table, because it provided me with a view of the other patrons.

The Sanno was visited frequently by flight crews from military charter flights, all civilians. I enjoyed ogling the stewardesses. I never quite fully understood the need for the military to charter aircraft to carry our men. I had always understood that the purpose of MAC, the Military Airlift Command, was to transport troops and or materials. Maybe my understanding was tainted with wrong ideas. But I didn't question the wisdom of the higher ups, either political or military. I didn’t care because I thoroughly enjoyed stewardess watching.

That morning there was a particularly good crop of stewardesses to stare at and undress with my eyes. I ordered a large breakfast complete with juice, eggs, ham, toast, and potatoes. I ate slowly, knowing that it would be some time before Marty would come down to join me, I munched slowly at my food, while looking contemplatively and longingly at the scenery.

Later in the morning hours we toured a small portion of the city. We saw a Kabuki performance. Kabuki is an ancient and highly stylized type of drama with elaborate costumes. All the players are men, regardless of the sex of the part. It is very interesting to watch the stylized movements of the actors and listen to the sound effects and music of the drum and Samisen.

After the Kabuki we wandered through the streets browsing at the shops and watching the people. I never tired of watching the people and being amazed at the quantity and variety of the shops. The competition, for consumer business, was very keen, but lacked the huckster-like approach of the hard peddling Vietnamese that plagued and tried to victimize the GIs.

The stores were not crowded, because many that afternoon, many were preparing to close early for the end of the year. We had planned to go out for a big dinner on what the Dutch call "Old Year's Eve". Most of the people we had met those past few days had all ready made their plans for the holiday, before we happened into their lives. Besides, a number of the business men we had met were married and had wives, in Tokyo, that they needed to spend time with.

We picked a restaurant on the advice of our cab driver, a very scientific method I must say. The restaurant was a traditional Japanese establishment totally devoid of Western influence, until Marty and I arrived.

"This is the real Japan Marty."

The place was on the second floor of a building in an area of the city we had never been in before. We walked up the long flight of stairs, and at the top, were greeted in Japanese.

"Komban wa shinshi."

I recognized the greeting, making an attempt to return the formality in my best Japanese, and then I bowed. The girl was most beautiful, in her silk kimono, with its Obi, and all the trimmings. Her appearance was that of a Geisha. Her white make- up stood out, in stark contrast, against her jet-black hair that was long-tressed in the customary manner. She motioned for us to remove our shoes. We took off our shoes, which she quickly and neatly placed by the door. We proceeded, stocking footed, along a floor covered with woven grass mats. The matting was soft and resilient beneath my feet.

She escorted us to a low black enameled table and through, a combination of, Japanese and sign language, she instructed us to sit down in a cross legged fashion on the thick pillows at the tableside. After sitting down I looked around to survey the room. At one end of our table, which was near a small low stage, was a small skillet topped stove. We were the only customers in the moderately large room at that time. The room was dimly lit with paper lanterns; the atmosphere very interesting, as if we had almost stepped back in time. The kimono the girl was wearing added to the atmosphere, it was intricately embroidered; she and other girls we had seen had an unearthly beauty, with their white make up. They all moved so gracefully, seemingly gliding across the matted floor.

The geisha that had seated us bowed and left for a few minutes. She returned with a huge quantity of food neatly, and artistically, arranged on a large tray. She bowed, politely, before kneeling down at the stove end of the table. I asked for Sake and she quickly motioned to one of the other girls, who quickly and obediently brought two flasks and two small china cups. The flasks and cups were decorated in Japanese caricatures. She bowed and set them on the table before us. She poured the first cup for each of us and then set the flasks on the edge of the stove; she bowed again, smiled and then left.

The girl, who was kneeling, leaned forward and lit the burner under the grill topped stove. She waited, patiently, for the cooking surface to heat up, and then began to cook. Bowls and chop sticks were placed before us, by yet another girl, along with a large bowl of steamed rice.

While our girl cooked and served us, in what was becoming an unending procession of delicacies, two more girls dressed formally in kimonos, demurely shuffled out and took their places on the stage. One had a Samisen, the other was a singer. The music from the Samisen began, the singer joined in. Of course neither of us understood what was being sung. It didn't matter. The music itself was very foreign in nature, but it was beautiful, it was, by our standards sing-songy, although it had an enchanting ethereal quality about it, which I found exceptionally pleasing. As the Japanese would say the music was intended to promote "taihei", peace and tranquility or maybe "Wa" inner harmony.

Not being accustomed to sitting cross legged, and having goofed up legs and other injuries anyhow, my legs went to sleep and then moved on into the utterly numb stage, along with my lower back. The Sake made me forget about my legs and concentrate on the outstanding food that continued to be placed in front of me. The only thing I did not care for was the bean curd, Tofu, cut in squares it giggled gelatinously in front of me, and had no real taste, to speak of. I had hot oriental mustard in the States, at Chinese restaurants, but nothing to compare with the real article; it was so hot that a dab, slightly larger than the end of a pencil point, opened all of my nasal passages, post haste.

We ate literally, for hours. Our girl never seemed to tire of cooking and smiling and getting more Sake for us. Marty had finally gotten to a point where he could no longer drink the Sake, so I began to empty his flask in addition to my own. Personally I found the Sake very good and enjoyable. I had relished all the other aspects of Japanese life, that is, all those that I had experienced up until then.

Try as we did the two of us could not finish all the food that had been brought to our table. I was not even sure of how to let the girl know that we were finished. I looked at her and slowly waved my hands in a motion depicting that we were quite satisfied. She smiled and bowed, I did also. She moved away from the table. Marty got up slowly and stretched his legs. I gingerly, or drunkenly, or both, moved away from the table, but could not get my legs to straighten out immediately. I was beginning to fear that they had locked up again. I rubbed them, slowly moving them back and forth until they reluctantly loosened and straightened out.
We paid our bill, put on our shoes and, still stiff, walked to the street below and hailed a taxi. I enjoyed these restaurants, you did not have to leave tips, it was considered an insult if you did; at least that is what I had been told. Our next stop was the “Gas Light.” It was crowded with people, mostly foreigners to Japan. As usual there were some Japanese, not as many as there had been previously, among the groups gathered at the tables. We sat at the bar and ordered a drink. My favorite little Dutch girl was there, which gave me something nice to gawk at.

There was one little Chinese man, whom I had seen before, that moved toward me from the far end of the bar room. As he came closer it was apparent that he was looking me over closely. He came up to me and began to speak in broken English.

"Good e-velning commlad."

For some reason this little man believed me to be a Russian diplomat. He in fact insisted that I was, even against my protestations. He continued to tell me about himself and his family. He went on and on. I was trying to be polite, no "Ugly American" type here. He continued and finally asked me, point blank, if I could put in a word for his son, who was a member of the "Red Guard". All I could think of to get rid of him was to shake my head in a positive gesture. He thanked me profusely, bowing over and over. He must have been satisfied, because he turned with a smile and walked back in the direction from which he had come, occasionally stopping, turning and bowing in my direction. I sighed and turned back to Marty. He looked as if he was amused.

"Commlad Lorrasun," he chuckled. "It must have been your big mustache and the drab clothing that convinced him of your authenticity."

"Gee, thanks Marty. Just what I need a friend like you. Up yours."

There was another man, Japanese, that came up to us shortly after the other man had gone. He asked us to join him and his group at their table. I declined. I had the feeling that he was queer. I looked into the mirror behind the bar and watched him return to his friends, they all looked a little strange, to my way of thinking.

We had a few more drinks and quietly welcomed in 1968. There was no lighted ball descending a flagpole in Time Square, no party hats or other rig-a-ma-role. I found that I didn't miss any of it.

New Year's Day broke clear and clean across the city. The weather was relatively mild. New Years Day was a day, one of the few during the year, when the Emperor made a personal appearance. Tens of thousands of Japanese would crowd in and around the Imperial Palace grounds, trying to catch a glimpse of their Emperor Hirohito. We planned to join them.

We missed the Emperor, not the tens of thousands of Japanese, many dressed up in traditional garb for their pilgrimage. The palace was a really unique place. There was a feeling or air of regality that surrounded everything, the stone walled moat, the Nijyu-Bashi or Double Bridge of the Imperial Palace, the gardens, and pagoda-like roofs on the impressive buildings. We did not see everything; the crowds milling about prevented that. As we wandered around the Imperial Palace Park, we ended up following some of the other pilgrims, toward an exhibition hall. There was a New Year's Day demonstration of martial arts taking place in the building.

One of the most interesting of the demonstrations was one where, small groups, of men in bamboo armor, and ancient looking blunderbuss guns lined up facing each other and started firing. They were giving a demonstration of old battle techniques that had apparently been introduced from Europe hundreds of year before. One line would fire while another was reloading and so forth. It reminded me of the Civil War buffs in the States that gather and pretend to be fighting different battles, all dressed up in blue and gray uniforms. These suits of armor were really neat the only differences being the color of the under garment.

There were karate, kendo, judo, tai chi, and other hand to hand techniques demonstrated. All of these things took place not far from the palace grounds and other government building, such as the National Diet Building.

I was having a ball. It was nice to just forget about the hospital, to put all the discomfort, even all of the fun I had there, out of my mind for a short time. I had been trying to have a positive attitude about my long term hospital stay, but it was hard at times. No! It was damn hard to be positive all the time, even when I was not a full time patient. It was easy there in Japan. If I was not able to fly I might as well have a good time while not flying.
I enjoyed myself everywhere I went, everything I saw, every restaurant I ate in, every slot machine I stuffed a yen in. I did it all with gusto. I am not disabled, I kept telling myself. It was all going to end, the trip, and the hospital. Soon I'd be back flying. I'd probably have orders waiting for me when I got back; either Fort Rucker or Fort Wolters as an Instructor Pilot, if I was lucky Europe or Japan.

Marty decided that he wanted to spend a few days in Hong Kong. I didn't really feel like going with him, I was content where I was. I was enjoying Japan. I had a few friends that I had met. I was courting the idea of coming back to Japan to work some day. But, right then, I decided to stay put. Marty could meet me back in Japan and we could fly home together. He was going to leave and take a jump over to Taiwan on his way to Hong Kong. Perhaps I would wish later that I had gone with him.

After a late dinner we took a taxi to the Gas Light. As usual we seated ourselves at the bar and ordered a drink. I swiveled around on my stool and eye balled the patrons. I wanted to see who was there that evening. No one was there that I could recognize in the dimly lit room, so I turned back toward the bar and Marty. We talked while sipping our drinks. The same little Chinese man spotted me and came rushing toward me. I watched him approach in the mirror.

"Good e-veling commlad. Lemembel mee?"

"Yes, my little yellow friend."

"You lemembel my son, yes?"

"Most assuredly!"
"May buya dlink for you comlad."

"Yes! Why not."

He seemed satisfied with his actions. He turned, bowed, and disappeared in the darkness of the room. My attention was brought back to Marty who, at the time, was poking me in the side to get my attention. Two attractive, round eyed, women had just come in. They had taken stools just around the corner of the bar from us. We moved our stools a bit closer to the corner and began to talk.

It was impossible for me to guess their ages. One was decidedly older than the other, but even she could not have been more than in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. She sure did not look very old. The younger one looked as if she was....oh, eighteen or nineteen years old. As it turned out, they were both from Australia, the Melbourne area to be exact.

"I have relatives in Sidney," I said. This was at least some tid-bit to get things rolling.

The younger of the two was on a two month holiday, touring the orient. The older woman claimed to be a nuclear physicist. I was skeptical at that claim. I had no intention to express my doubts. It just seemed a bit unbelievable to me.. Women just didn't do things like that in the 1960s. I had no real reason to doubt her, so I pushed aside my reservations.

"What are you doing here in Japan: Are you touring with your friend?" I asked the older of the two.

"Just for a short time,” she responded. “Truthfully, I am on my way to a job assignment."

"Where might that be?"

"Kiev, U.S.S.R.."

"Keiv?"

"Yes. I'm going to supervise the installation of part of a reactor for the Russian government."

This claim seemed even more far fetched than the original. It didn't seem possible that Australia would be sending people to work in the U.S.S.R., Australia was involved in Vietnam as an ally, fighting with us against the communists. There were Russian advisors and Russian equipment being used there. In fact, I had probably been shot down by a Russian made weapon. I guessed that it was just my naivety over ruling logic again. Why should Australia not send people to work in Russia? Money! Money was the key. I stopped worrying about it and took them at their word, and just enjoyed myself spending time with them.

We must have talked for a couple of hours. We talked about what there was to do and see in Tokyo, where we had been, what we were doing, and our immediate plans. The hour was getting late when the older woman asked us to join her in her cabin on board ship for a late night tea.

"A capital idea," I said, "I'll call a taxi."

The younger woman was not traveling by ship we learned. The two had flown to Japan together and had done some little bit of touring on the way. It was there in Japan where Gail had taken her prearranged cabin onboard the ship, Jill had taken lodging at the Imperial Palace Hotel.

The four of us piled in the small taxi; the driver was instructed to take us to the docks at Tokyo Harbor. It seemed a long drive even though it was not that far. The night was dark; there was no moon, the smog from the city made it even darker. I wasn't paying too much attention. Gail had given the driver, specific, instructions for her dock. The taxi pulled to a stop, not far from a gang plank. I looked up at the large ship, standing gray in the foggy night air. Lights along the dock area glowed eerily, illuminating the moist air around them forming glowing balls as the light reflected off of the water droplets.

I moved my eyes along the lines of the ship. Never in my life had I been on a large ship like this one. This would be a real treat. The light from the dock flickered more brightly as a freshening breeze blew the fog away momentarily. There on the bow of the ship was painted a large RED STAR. The bloody ship was a Red Chinese vessel. This was going to be interesting.

I tried not to show my surprise. My heart began to beat faster in my chest. I felt as if I were an active participant in a James Bond adventure, definitely exciting. Marty and I looked at each other at about the same time. Marty must have noticed the RED STAR at the same time I did.. Together we leaned to the window of the taxi and told the driver to wait for us with the motor running.

Almost reluctantly, I don't believe that I would have missed it for the world though, I moved up the gang plank with Gail, Marty and Jane following close behind. We were greeted on deck by armed guards dressed in Red Chinese uniforms. It was all very strange indeed and a very exciting set of circumstances. I perceived that there was a definite potential for danger on this ship. We had been fighting Chinese advisors dressed just like these guards. I hoped that they would not want to check my wallet, with my military ID card easily visible just inside the fold. Maybe it was my brace and the relaxed nature, or the arrogant half crazed scout pilot attitude, not to mention Marty's half withered looking hand that kept them from looking us over more closely. They might have thought that we were not Americans, because Americans just wouldn't be stupid enough to do something like we were doing.

Once past the armed guards there was a noticeable air of, increased, relaxation in our little group. The four of us moved on easily to Gail's stateroom (cabin) without further ado. Almost mysteriously, ten minutes after we were in the cabin, an oriental cabin boy arrived with a tray bearing tea with all the trimmings. The young man politely put the lacquered tray on a table and then bowed before leaving the cabin. Gail took charge and served.

After having our tea, Jane, Marty, and I left Gail's cabin. We walked down the gang plank, the taxi was still waiting as we had instructed. We dropped Jane off at her hotel, went back to the Sanno and visited the night club down stairs. I was keyed up from the evening’s activities and knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep. It was not every day that an American goes onboard a vessel of a country, which his country has no diplomatic relations with. I stood in front of a slot machine and fed it a few nickels. I stuck the coins in automatically, one after another, while wondering and worrying if I had done anything wrong, by going for tea aboard the Chinese ship. At worst this adventure would give me a good story to tell my grand children if someday I had some. During the time I stood thinking and feeding the slot machine, I hit two medium sized jack pots and actually came out ahead. I sorted everything out in my mind. I had not been afraid of the ships being Red Chinese, or that I had been in danger....I had been there before...., my hesitancy all along had been the fact that, what I was doing was probably illegal as a citizen of the United States, not to mention it’s military. No harm done, it was over, it had been an exciting episode.

Marty checked out of the hotel the next morning and began his journey to Hong Kong. I settled down by myself in the same room. I was fascinated by that huge city. When I had been in the hospital in Tokyo I had never realized the magnitude or the complexity of the city. I had only seen glimpses from the hospital windows, and those at a distance from said windows. For some strange reason I felt more secure and at ease, or maybe more at home, in Tokyo than in New York City; maybe because people seemed to respect one another.

Alone in Tokyo I immersed myself in eating at all the good places that we had found in the past week or so. One of my favorites was right in the Sanno, the Genghis Khan Room. I was continually impressed with the quality of the services at the Sanno, just as I had found it to have the best public bath in the area; it had some of the best of everything Tokyo had to offer.

LOVE AT SECOND GLANCE

One afternoon I was sitting having a coke and looking over my English-Japanese Conversation Dictionary, in one of the hotel lounges. A crew from one of the many military air charters sat at a table beside me. Being the nosey, big eared, opportunist that I am, I could not help but hear their conversation. At one point I chimed in with a comment about flying. I ended up being invited to join the group of three women and two men at their table. They all worked for Seaboard World Airways.

The six of us, after spending a few hours together talking, ate in the Genghis Khan Room of the Sanno. I had been told that they were all staying in the Hilton. So, I wasn't the only one that thought the food was good in the Sanno, they said they preferred it there, and prices were better. Four out of the five crew members were very talkative and very outgoing. All three girls were pretty, but two of them seemed more desirable in a way, primarily, I suppose, because of their openness, those two girls paired off with the two charter pilots. The third girl, Denise, was the quiet one which, at first, I thought I had been stuck with. I had been wrong; she was delightful once we started talking together.

Denise couldn't have said more than a few words during our meal, it didn't bother me, I'm usually not too talkative or very comfortable in a crowd myself; at least we had that in common. She seemed to me to become prettier as the evening progressed. I caught myself looking at her more and more often. She was not only pretty, she was healthy looking, kind of country, she was wholesome, and freckles covered her rosy cheeks. Her reddish brown hair was cut short and framed her face perfectly. A song sung by Claudine Longet popped into my head and I couldn't get rid of it-Falling in love again, never wanted to. What I'm I to do? Can't help it...".

After dinner we all returned to the lounge for a while and then walked across the street to the disco. Denise and I sat and watched the others dance. She wasn't much of a dancer, which made me feel more at ease; perhaps she was just being nice, having noticed my brace. The others looked a bit out of place among the, same sex, couples that were dancing to the loud music. I reached over and took Denise’s hand in mine, she at first began to withdraw it, then changing her mind she relaxed and yielded to my small show affection.

It didn't take very long for me to get my fill of the loud disco beat. I asked Denise if she wanted to leave. She replied that she was ready to go back to her hotel room. I asked her if I could walk her home. She smiled coyly and nodded her consent. We left the others at the disco and began to walk slowly, hand in hand. She talked openly to me when we were alone, a distinct change had occurred after she left her friends. We walked along quietly conversing about ourselves, getting to know each other. What purpose did our getting to know one another have, I asked myself. The next day or so she would be leaving on another flight, I wanted her address.

We entered the lobby of the Hilton, and moved across to the elevator, hit the up button and waited my arm around her tiny waist. The elevator came to an abrupt stop on the fifteenth floor where we got out. I walked down the hall lingeringly, expecting that I would only see her for a few minutes more and then she would be gone from my life. As we approached her door I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it tenderly. To my utter surprise and delight she handed me the key to her room and we went in. The next morning when I went back to the Hilton to look for her she had already left, off on another flight.

My leave was drawing to a close all too soon for my way of thinking. Within a few days I'd be back to the realities of military life in the hospital. Surely, I thought, they only allowed me leave because I was going to be reassigned as soon as I got back. I could look forward to flying again, I was sure that a year in hospital had been enough, more than enough. I did not accept the possibility that there could be more hospital time ahead of me.

I spent the next afternoon that is after my trip to the public bath, buying gifts for my family and any girl friend that I might find in the near future. I bought silk robes and other various oriental items as souvenirs. I bought a Japanese grammar book to study along with my conversation dictionary. I thought the Japanese book would make a good conversation piece, even if I would never use it again.

As my last days rolled by I had regrets that I had not had the foresight to have done some traveling around the country, rather than having spent all of my time in Tokyo.

Marty got back to Tokyo and spent one more night with me at the Sanno. We left the next morning, after I had gone, for the last time, to the barber shop for a shave and then to the public bath. I would dearly miss the massages. The shaves I could live without. I had been there at the hotel for nearly three weeks, signing tickets on my room tab for most of my meals. When I paid the bill it was only two hundred seventy eight dollars and some change. Things were certainly inexpensive then.

We took a taxi to Tachikawa and checked in at Flight Operations to see what flights were headed State-side. During the Vietnam Conflict there were a number of daily flights, going both ways. We were lucky enough to be able to catch a military charter that was going to Tacoma, Washington, via Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska. The nice things about the charter flights were: having stewardesses to look at, and in addition and its nothing to sniffle at, getting hot meals en route. Even though the charters were more comfortable, by far, than the military transports, it still seemed a tremendous waste of tax payer's money.

The aircraft made a short stop to refuel at Elmendorf, Alaska, and then we flew on to McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma, Washington. As soon as we were off of the charter we checked with Flight OPs to see what if anything was headed east. In a matter of a couple of hours there was a C-141 transport that was scheduled to go to Dover Air Force Base, the place we had started from. Our names were placed on the manifest, along with a few others. The weather in Tacoma was rainy, just as it had been on the way to Japan; drizzling rain with fog seemed to be Tacoma's perpetual condition.

As the ETD drew closer I was bumped from the manifest by someone on emergency leave. Marty left and I was stranded temporarily. I waited for some twelve hours until I was able to jump a flight, as the only passenger, on a C-141 going to Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Tinker is an interesting base because it is a maintenance base for many of the Air Force's larger aircraft: transports, bombers, tankers, on up to B-52's, and including the presidential fleet of specially equipped KC-135s. I went to OPs at Tinker and, by a stroke of good fortune, signed on for a flight onboard a presidential KC-135 that was going to Andrew's Air Force Base, just outside of Washington, DC. The flight was scheduled to leave within an hour after I had checked in at flight OPs.

When the departure time approached I started toward the flight line, going to where I had been told to go. Low and behold the KC-135 that I was going to ride on was Air Force One, or at least one of the presidential fleet referred to as Air Force One. It had been there at Tinker for routine maintenance. I believed that one of the reasons I was allowed on that ship was because of my security clearance. Almost two thirds of the aircraft's interior was taken up with computers and communications gear, radar and transceivers, UHF, VHF, micro wave and others. All of the equipment was covered and marked "TOP SECRET". I was escorted to the rear compartment, the only place other than the cockpit where seating was available. The aft section of the aircraft was set up as a conference room, or war room, with beautiful wooden desks and plush swivel seating. There were just enough chairs for I would guess the President and some top advisors. This particular presidential aircraft was set up to be an aerial command post in the event of a nuclear war or other military disaster. I wondered how many other presidential ships there were.

I was cautioned, on the way back to the conference room, not to look under any of the coverings marked secret. I sat in one of the big chairs and reclined, waiting for take off. The president himself had more than likely sat in that same chair that I was sitting in then. It made me feel important in a way. After we took off I moseyed up to the cockpit to say hello to the crew. When the pilots noticed my wings, I was traveling in my officer's greens; they were very friendly to me. During the flight I was asked if I would like to fly the 135, just to see what I thought, I could hardly refuse such an offer. The big ship handled very smoothly, I had flown fixed-wing aircraft before, nothing ever so large, that is up to that point, it had only been single engine craft. Marty may have beaten me back to the east coast, but I would bet he didn't do it in the style that I had.

The flight ended too quickly, as most good things do, I was astonished at the speed of an aircraft the size of the KC-135. We landed at Andrews and then taxied to a restricted area. A vehicle met us and, once we shut down, we were immediately taken out of the restricted zone.

HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

I hailed a taxi to take me to the civilian terminal where I could catch a flight to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania and my car. I had become used to the tax service in Tokyo. When the taxi pulled up, and I got in, I was taken aback. The floor was filthy; a few soda cans were crumpled in one corner. The driver was rude. I knew I was back in the good old United States of America. I was glad when the short ride was over.

I visited with my family for a day before returning to the hospital. I had some small gifts for them and just wanted to see them all before heading out again. I picked up my car and off I went. On the eighty-five mile ride back I began to get a little depressed at the thought of having to go back and be a part of all the sickness and broken lives of the patients. I prayed that I would have orders to leave, but then I had no indication from the doctors that I would be leaving. The closer I got the more accustomed to the idea of being back. It could be worse, I told myself.

I checked in upon my return and learned that I had been promoted to Chief Warrant Officer CW-2 on 2 January l968 and that I would be placed in a temporary BOQ (Bachelor Officer's Quarters) on the second floor of the WAC barracks. Marty had not returned. He was expected to arrive later that same day. He would be in the room next to me; we would share a common bathroom between our two rooms. I moved my belongings into the BOQ and then went in search of what friends I still had that were left around the hospital to visit with.
B.T. was up and walking, I was happy for him, thinking back to how depressed he had been when we had first met. His attitude had improved remarkably, so much that we had, before I had gone on leave, given him a grenade cigarette lighter as a Christmas gift. He had definitely come a long way, we all had. He had started to take tests with the VA representative to become approved for Vocational Rehabilitation training. He was planning on going back to college, as were most of my friends that were being medically discharged from the military.

I saw my doctors that first afternoon; they examined me and told me to continue with my PT. There were no signs that my knees were getting any better. I was asked to go to a meeting that next afternoon in the small auditorium where I had received my Air Medal with "V" device. I wasn't given any specific reason; I was just told to attend. For some reason I felt that I was asked to go as some sort of example. What kind of example? I didn't know.

I went to the room where the meeting was to take place. Strange, I thought, everyone there was an amputee, except for me. I couldn't figure this one out. The first person to talk to the group was an older man, a sergeant first class that was missing his right lower arm, an AE (Above the Elbow) amputation. His prosthesis, with hook attachment was different from anything that I, or any of the others had seen before. Instead of the hook being operated by a harness, which looped around the opposite shoulder, his was operated by the bicep of the amputated arm. There was a plastic tube through his bicep; a surgical procedure had created the tunnel for the plastic to be inserted in. A metal rod then went into the tube and cables were attached to the rod, whereby, when the bicep was contracted the hook opened. A pretty nifty arrangement I thought. The sergeant demonstrated his hook and told of the advantages compared to the harness system.

After the sergeant’s demonstration one of the orthopedic doctors talked for a few minutes. He told the men that there were worse things than amputation. Amputation had of course been a last resort, but a viable one. In most cases amputation was called for because of the massive amount of tissue damage. Even if the limbs had been saved, the residual pain would not have been worth it. By amputation most of the pain would be eliminated. The person with an amputated limb could expect phantom pains occasionally, such as toes that were no longer there would itch, or the feeling of muscles that were not there twitching. In most instances severing and removing the mutilated tissue would remove the pain.

As I sat listening to the stories and explanations of procedures and so forth, I noticed my friend that had lost the six inches in his femur. While I had been on leave he had gone ahead with his plan; had his leg removed and now had his prostheses. I drifted off in thought, but was soon brought back to reality by the mention of my name.

"Mr. Rollason by contrast looks perfectly well, no limbs missing, but on the other hand all his damage is internal, he will be in pain from a variety of injuries and hurt for the rest of his life."

Now I knew why I had been asked to go to the meeting. Most of the men there knew me so the doctors just figured that I would be a good person to use as an example.

"Every time he takes a step his joints are, actually, microscopically, wearing away, so he'll never be free from his discomfort."

I sat thinking again about what he had been saying. There had been a number of times during the previous year when I had wished that my left leg had just been removed initially, due to the constant pain. I presumed, from hearing the doctors, that my sometime wishes were not all that out of line. I must say it did upset me somewhat, maybe it didn't actually upset me, but it did get me to thinking about the very real possibility that I was actually permanently disabled. Of course I had thought about disability, mostly in relationship to not being able to fly for the Army. Everyone that I knew in the hospital that had been there for any length of time certainly had thought about their problems in relationship to their disabilities. Sure, when I was hurting it had crossed my mind, but I sincerely believed that it was all just a temporary condition. Here I was being told that even after my ankle had been repaired, it was still wearing away, and my knee would also continue to wear away whether it was repaired or not.

The doctors sure had chosen a round about way of hinting, to me, that the Army was beginning to look at me as a disabled person, and no longer an Army aviator. Even with all that bad news I held on tightly to the hope that all I thought was not true, not being permanent and degenerative, rather only a temporary inconvenience.

I put my nose to the grindstone after that day pumping iron with my legs, getting bigger and bigger muscles, working harder so my dreams would not slip away from me like the doctor's talk had suggested.

Marty was back and had brought his car back with him, for the first time, after he returned from Japan. He and I headed for New York City in it one evening; he was going to visit some French girl that he had met somewhere. He never did tell me where or how he had gotten to know her. I do not believe that he had told anybody. We drove up in front of this girl's apartment building. There was a no parking, and a tow away zone sign there, Marty ignored them both, flipped the doorman a few dollars and asked him to keep an eye on his car. He told the doorman that we would only be a few minutes.

We were only there a few minutes, just like Marty had told the doorman. Those few minutes were enough, enough that when we came outside the car had already been towed away. Good ol' Sam, the guy with no date got to go look for the car. The doorman had kept his eye on it the whole time the police were towing it away. I called the N.Y.P.D. and asked where they impounded the vehicles that they tow away.

I taxied to the dock area impound lot, the place had cars everywhere. It took on hour and thirty-five minutes for them to locate the car. I paid the parking ticket, the towing fee and service charge,

"Marty better have the cash for my reimbursement," I told myself. "I aught to charge him for my time, I didn't even get a chance to eat."

I met up with the loving couple at a second floor Chinese restaurant near her building. I was treated to a left over egg roll, and then we all left. We stopped by her building this time she got out with Marty. I stayed in the Mustang, and circled the block, until Marty reappeared on the pavement walk outside of the apartment building. We drove back to Valley Forge that same night, the end of a quick, expensive, trip.

One Friday evening four of us got together and drove into Philadelphia to go to Mickey Finn's, a pub that featured ragtime music. We had driven to Philly in one car, Marty's; I should have known better. Well, we were not even in the place good before my man Marty had picked up one of the five....let me repeat...., one of the five, ugliest women in captivity. I mean, that girl made some of my blind dates look like Marilyn Monroe by comparison. The poor girl was so…I don’t want to be too crude… she was so unattractive; she could have turned milk sour, if she looked at it. To top off the insult which Marty had given the rest of us, he drove off with this woman and left us stranded in Philadelphia in the dead of a winter's night.

None of us had expected that something like that would happen. All of us together, if we would have pooled our money, didn't have enough to get a room for the night let alone transportation back to Phoenixville. We did collectively have enough money to take the train to Phoenixville, but it did not leave until the next morning. Credit cards were not very common then and none of us had one anyhow, so we were stuck.

We prowled the streets, moving constantly to keep warm. The best we could do was to enter the subway to keep warm. We finally located a twenty-four hour doughnut shop. We rotated between the subway and the doughnut shop all night. In the morning we got tickets and traveled to Phoenixville and then to the hospital.

There had been a big party scheduled for that Saturday night at a captain's, big old, rental house. The captain was a good ol' boy; he was one of the male nurses at the hospital. Marty still had not returned by the time we had gotten back. We had schemed the whole way back on the train. At the hospital we passed word around about what had happened the night before. It was all set, everyone who was going to go to the party, would shun Marty when he got there, if he came at all. Maybe he was taking the advice of a late 50's or early 60's song that I remembered. "If you wanna' be happy for the resta' your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So, from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you...".

It was a number of hours after the party had cranked upand got going good before Marty made his entrance. It worked perfectly, that is our shunning plan. He was going whack-o with every person there ignoring him. Old softy, me, gave in first and talked to him. I asked him why he was so late coming to the party.

Marty related the following story. A few days prior to our going to Mickey Finn's he had become acquainted with one of the WACs (Women’s Army Corp) that lived down stairs from us. Not a bad looking girl, somewhat, shall I say, lacking in mental prowess, not very bright, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, whom I shall refer to as the "Screamer". She had spent some time with Marty, in his room, watching TV and what ever; how much time Marty didn't tell me. She had developed an attachment to Marty, what kind of an attachment only Marty could say, but then maybe he could not. He certainly wasn't the fatherly type at twenty-three.

She had come up to his room, on the day of the party. She said she just wanted to be with him, and flatly refused to leave when he was ready to go to the party. She screamed that she would kill herself if he left her alone in his room. Marty was, understandably, a little concerned and disturbed at the prospect of returning to his room to find a corpse had taken up residence there. He stayed, trying to convince her that she needed some help, that he could not give her, that killing herself was not the answer, and so forth. She, still refusing, repeated, in loud sobs, that she would kill herself if he left to go to the party. Marty was not about to take her along to the festivities, in her condition, she would not fit in. He talked some more and then finally, after a few hours she saw that her threats of self inflicted, severe bodily harm, to put it mildly, were not going to work. She eventually assured him the she was not going to do anything rash; but she did admit to him that she wanted to stay in his room because his clothes were there

f Marty did make a mistake in having been so honest and complete in telling his story to us. The rest of the evening he had two recent occurrences to be teased about. He seemed to take it in stride and even went around asking for help to remove the body from his room if it was there when he got back.

Marty had turned out to be quite a character since I had gotten to know him. Outwardly, especially on just a one time meeting, you would swear that he was just a very quiet, subdued, shy young man. That is probably what got him into so many of the ridiculous dilemmas that he always was finding himself. He stood about six foot-maybe six foot one inch, or there about, with dark-brown wavy hair and an innocent face that reddened easily, at the slightest provocation.

It was the day after the captain's party, a Sunday, that Marty went back to New York City to visit his French girlfriend again. He ended up bringing her aback to live with him in the BOQ. The French girl, Michelle, was a strikingly beautiful and sexy girl. Her accent was charming, her face outstanding, legs sculpted to perfection, her over all figure and personality were things well worth remembering.

It was both exciting and embarrassing seeing her in next to nothing in the bathroom every morning. She never knocked before going into our shared facility. She seemed never to be surprised by my condition when she would come bursting in wearing only a smile on her face. I might be taking a dump or standing over the toilet with a raging piss-hard trying to gain relief. I wondered if all French girls were that casual, and devil may care in their attitudes. It was definitely interesting to a naive fellow like me.

We, that is, a large number of the patients and staff, were planning a Valentine's Day party. It was to take place at an old auditorium in down town Phoenixville. Everybody was trying like the dickens to round up a date for the gala affair. There were not very many women available in and around the hospital. I did not know about the other guys, but I certainly did not know any of the local girls, from Phoenixville or the surrounding area.

There was one particularly cute little nurse on Ward 3AB, that almost every single, as in unmarried, officer had already asked to go to the party. They had all been turned down. I was getting desperate, my love life had never been the greatest, I was not about to admit it to any of the other men. I confidently stated that I was going to ask Barb to the party, and that she would go with me regardless of the many men she had turned away. I mustered up enough courage to ask her. She caught me off guard completely, by saying "Yes". I walked around, proud as a peacock, the envy of all the other guys. I could hardly wait for the night of the party to arrive; old klutz-o had done well.

A group of nurses had gotten together and had decorated the old auditorium for the occasion; it looked nice, especially in the dim light. Barb and I danced the night away, well, at least part of it. We left the party early because she wanted to go home and rest. I drove her back to her apartment in Norristown. She hesitantly invited me in for a night cap. We sat on the couch in the sparsely furnished living room and listened to some records, while sipping, to my surprise, the coffee she had made as a night cap. I put my arm around her tiny waist; she snuggled up against me warmly. It sure is funny the part that music plays in a person's life. At different times songs just pop into my mind, while I am doing something. Sometimes, with me, it runs in spurts. At that particular moment in time, "When I Fall in Love” by the Lettermen was running through my feeble, love starved mind. She turned to me and the next thing I knew we were, as they use to say in the vernacular, "swappin' spit". One thing led to another and soon we were going at it, necking, hot and heavy. I was getting rather excited, to say the least. I certainly believed she was too. I was ready to make my move when suddenly she stopped kissing me and said "I can't, I just can't go on."

"Fine, you can't go on, I'm leaving. I need to walk around and cool down anyway." I got up from the couch, trying to hide my excitement and made a move toward the door.

"No, please don't go."

"OK, so I won't go." I returned to my spot next to her on the couch, not sure of what I should do next. She made up my mind. Within a few minutes it started all over again, and we were necking and petting. "Love is easier, the Second time around," jumped into my head, it heartened me-"two's the charm," I reminded myself. We were back at it and I was really getting excited and anxious to make my move.

"No! Stop! Please, I can't go on!"

It was becoming frustrating, not to mention physically painful for me. I got up from the couch for the second time and started for the door. As I was turning the knob to leave she ran to the door, throwing herself against it to keep me from passing, and pleaded with me to stay. For the second time I returned to sit beside her.

"Gee, my place is still warm," I said, trying to keep a good natured attitude about my situation, so is my coffee. I sat down. Again I was not sure of what I should do. For the third time she answered my unspoken question. In a matter of minutes the same scenario repeated itself. Our necking was even more intense on that third go-round, we even got into a little fondling. The action was picking up and approached the hot and heavies, but then it happened again.

"Please stop! I can't go through with this. I'm sorry."

"So am I. I really like you Barb, but let it be established that I never take advantage of a woman. Not unless she wants to be taken advantage of."

I got up for the third time to leave. She got up with me, again starting to ask me not to go.

"One, two, three strikes you’re out at the o-o-o-old bal-l-l-l game." What a time for a song like that to run across the pathways of my memory, even if it was appropriate. That time I turned the knob and opened the door. I turned back to her and tenderly kissed her on the cheek. "Still friends Barb?

"Still friends Sam!"

"No hard feelings then?"

"No hard feelings!"

I left her standing at the door. I think she realized my position, at least I hoped she did. At the time I did not realize hers, but I respected her for her stand. I later found out that she was married, a complete surprise to me. Her husband was in Officers training somewhere and I guess she was just lonely. I could surely understand her loneliness, I most surely could.

I drove back to the Officer's Club at the hospital. My desires had not abated very much during the drive. I entered the club and ordered a Rusty Nail. I took a sip and grimaced as I swallowed. The strong thick liquid burned its way all the way down to my toes. Then, and only then, did I start to calm down and look around to see who was there. Not knowing all the details at that time, my mind had been clouded with a bit of anger, respecting the girl and then bitter too at the rejection I had felt. It could have been that my reaction had been an overreaction from all the previous rejections I seemed to have had in my life. I was resilient, young, and still a little crazy, I shrugged it off as soon as I noticed the other girls there in the club. I had still impressed the other officers, even if I had struck out. There were a number of nurses and Red Cross girls that were there. Dixie, one of the Red Cross girls, came up to me and asked what was wrong. I hedged the issue, intuitively she knew, she told me to go and have a talk with Gloria. Gloria was an older women, at that time any woman over twenty-six or so was an older woman to me, one of the Red Cross girls that, shall I say....that was known to exhibit an over abundance of fondness, for the affections and advances, of the opposite sex. Dixie had of course filled me in on these details of which I had previously been unawares. I approached Dixie and offered to buy her a drink. She readily accepted, we talked for a few minutes over our drinks. Even before the drink was emptied I suggested that the two of us go to my B.O.Q. room and relax. We could watch TV there, have another drink and just chill. I told her my legs were killing me, which was the truth, and I just had to get off of my feet. I took her by the hand, and she led me out of the door.

In my room we kicked off our shoes, flipped on the Tonight Show, stretched out on the bed and got comfortable. Gloria seemed to have an insatiable appetite for men, me in particular at that moment. Before long we were playing the kissey face huggy bear game that I had started a few hours before with Barb.

The next morning I went to the semi-communal restroom and within a minute or so was greeted by Michelle, dressed in panties, sans bra, she smiled and asked if I had had a good time the night before in my room.

"Don't zey no, Sammiee." she said pushing her French accent to the hilt. "Martie an-d I weare watch you throu la key hol."

Great! I thought to myself, if I had known I had an audience, perhaps I would have put on a better performance. There are some obvious advantages and disadvantages to the old fashioned hey holes which we had, it just depended on which side of the key hole you were on and at what time.

THE LAST CUT

March passed by uneventfully, I continued to work feverishly with the weights to strengthen my legs. Toward the end of the month I had gotten up to ninety pounds on my progressive resistance exercises, my legs were bigger than they had ever been in my life. The sad part was that even with the muscles as large as they were the knees were no more stable than when I had started, months previously. The doctors had continued to argue the good and bad points of surgery in front of me during rounds. We would come over from the BOQ for weekly exams. I listened again and again to the arguments of the doctors. All of what they said sounded logical. Then again if there was a chance at giving the knee some amount of stability, they were discussing the worst knee scenario to start with, it might be worth a try. Just maybe my knee was not the worst.

They talked about static repairs, similar to the repair that had been done on my left ankle. There was also a dynamic repair that was talked about. The difference between a static and a dynamic repair is simply this: a static repair is one where something is tied in place. The dictionary says something like this: pertaining to a fixed condition and exhibiting little change or lacking movement. The dynamic repair on the other hand is one that as the leg moves, the muscles and tendons are attached in such a manner that, the joint is drawn together, tightening it up, if you will, during the normal course of movement of the limb; so there is an ability to change associated with the dynamic repair.

It seemed to me that if they were going to do anything that the dynamic repair would be the way to go. The procedure that they were contemplating was known as a "Slocum procedure", named after its developer. The extent of the damage was discussed, no one was absolutely sure of the extent of the damage. It appeared that all of the ligaments were torn away from the joint on one end or the other. One of the doctors brought up the fact that the longer after an injury, especially a ligament tear, the less the chance of a good repair. I wondered if the ligaments had atrophied or what.

The doctors were impressed with the amount of weight that I had build up to and sounded sincere in there disappointment that it had done nothing to stabilize the joints. A group decision was made, one that included my input. Surgery would be performed on the left knee and a "Slocum Procedure" was the chosen operation. I began to psyche myself up mentally for the operation. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get out of the hospital. I had been in the hospital for sixteen months already and I was getting ready for another operation and at least another three months, and that was just time I would spend in plaster.

I was moved back over to Ward 3AB in April and was scheduled for surgery about ten days before Easter. It felt strange after having had the freedom of the BOQ to be tossed back into the communal arrangement of the ward. There were few of the men left that had been there when I was on the ward the last time. Most had moved on to return to service or to medical discharges.
Even some of the long timers, like myself, had gone before me, most of them had amputations. I tried not to think or dwell on the fact that I had been in that place so long, long enough to have gained enough time in grade to get a promotion for doing nothing, when I should have been out flying. I thought back to times in Vietnam when we use to sit around the Scout lounge tent and wish out loud that the North Vietnamese had helicopters so that we could have dog fights with them. We would have knocked the squat out of 'em.

Sadly I was loosing track of a lot of my old friends from flight school. Mostly I lost track of them because it made me feel bad knowing that they were out doing what I wished I was doing, instead of being stuck where I was.

The day before the surgery was scheduled an orderly came for me and took me into a room to prep me for surgery. He, I was hoping that it would be a she, had me crawl onto a table and remove my hospital blue pants while handing me a towel to cover my private parts. He took a basin of water and washed my leg before starting to lather it up for shaving. He washed up to my crotch and them asked me to wash myself there. He first lathered my foot and shaved the hair from my toes. Then proceeding up my leg he shaved my calf, thigh, and even shaved half the hair away from my crotch including half of my scrotum. Why in the world they would want half the hair shaved off of my crotch? I could never understand. I started to think that I had uncovered another queer corpsman. I was relieved that he made no advances, because I was ready to nail him to the wall.

The day of surgery sneaked up on me, and as usual the night before I was awakened to get a sleeping pill at midnight. A nothing by mouth sign was placed, as before, on the foot of the bed. Early in the morning I was awakened again and given some preliminary shots that would start to make me drowsy and lessen the amount of fluid being generated by my body. My mouth was beginning to get pasty, I craved a sip of water, even a drop on my lips would have been nice. Even in my drugged state my sense of humor was at work and the line from a song rumbled crazily through my thoughts...."All day I faced the burning sand with out a taste of water, cool, clear, water...water..."

I was not sure of the time when they came for me, early sounds about right. They must have given me something stronger that time, I was really woozy and a little dizzy as they wheeled me to the OR. I instinctively fought against the feelings of drowsiness. I remember Bill strapping my arms down and inserting IV needles into both arms. I even remember his sticking the needle of the Sodium Pentothal syringe into the shunt on the IV tube. The strangest thing of all, totally unlike the first operation, when I had been put to sleep, I felt the drug as it move up my vein, it burned and I could feel it...it slowly progress up my arm and then down into my chest before I lost consciousness. I remembered looking up at the doctors and OR staff that I could see, they looked weird through my blurred eyes, they seemed to have a look on their faces that said, "When is this ass hole going to go to sleep."

The next thing that I remember is slowly coming to in the recovery room. A feeling of nausea swelled and overtook my being as I regained consciousness. I felt like I had to puke, but knew there was nothing inside to come out. I wretched anyway, dry heaving into an emesis basin. I began to chuckle out loud as I looked at the little kidney shaped basin while coughing and gagging on my dry run. When I had seen the emesis basin it reminded me of the times in the hospital in Japan when the guy in the bed next to me yelled that he was going to throw up. An orderly came running in with one of these little kidney shaped bowls and handed it to the guy, he immediately puked in one end of the bowl. The vomit shot out with force, quickly rounded the curve of the short, shallow, bowl and then shot out and onto the orderly. You would think that any person working in a hospital would learn, rather quickly not to use such a little container; but I suppose protocol called for the use of these, probably expensive, emesis basins.

The Lord only, and I guess the recovery room nurse, knew how long I lay in recovery before I was taken back to my bed in Ward 3B. I vaguely remember helping to get myself off of the gurney and onto the bed. A nurse was waiting and gave me a hefty shot of morphine. I quickly returned to dreamland. When I awoke for the second time I was aware enough to see that I had a cast on my leg that went from just below my left hip down to and including my foot. Even in my drugged condition I was aware of the appalling pain that radiated from, not only my knee, but my entire leg. I speculated in my fuzzy mind, relative to the size of the incision. Not one of the doctors had given me any indication of how big the intruding wound would be, not that it actually mattered, but it felt as if it was as long as my leg. The bloody thing definitely throbbed, I was beginning get reacquainted, intimately with the meaning of agony. I didn't much care who was there (I think my mother had come down) or what was going on, all I wanted was some relief and the only relief that was available came only with drug induced sleep.

The morning after the operation, after a troubled night of tiring sleep, if that is possible, my leg felt as if it were swollen as big around as a redwood tree. The really bad part of it all was that it was in a cast that was only meant for a sapling. It was about mid-morning when an orderly from the cast room was sent by to split the plaster beast open to relieve some of the pressure. He moved up along my bed and placed the plaster saw on the mattress beside me. He bent over and plugged in the cord and then raised back up to look at the cast before cutting it. He drew an imaginary line down the front center of the cast and then commenced to sawing away. My leg was so sensitive that when he placed the saw on my cast it felt as if it were directly on my leg. I gritted my teeth and watched the saw move slowly down the cast and over the knee toward the lower end of the plaster, which looked as if it ended just above my ankle. He finished making the cut and then reached for a set of tongs to pry the cast open. He placed the jaws of the tool into the kerf from the saw’s cut and started to open the cast. He applied very little pressure before the cast literally sprang open, being pushed by the swollen tissue which it had confined. It did bring some relief, but not nearly enough.

As with the last operation, the last big one, that is, not counting the one where I was awake, I continually would wake up and then, just as quickly I would drift off to sleep again; having only really regained conscious awareness for a short period of time. During these periods of wakefulness, my memories are somewhat distorted. Pain is one thing, the excruciating pain, the pain that brought me to full awareness when I did come to, was quite another. I knew that this phase would soon wear off and I would be awake most of the time.

As time passed I began to spend more and more time awake. I even got to the point that, when meals were brought in I could stay up long enough to see what it was. There was one major dilemma, just the sight of the food made me nauseous. Just a glimpse would make me want to heave up whatever was in my stomach, which was nothing. The smell was even worse to my drug confused mind. The morphine helped to ease the pain, but it made me sick as the devil. I decided that while I was getting morphine I would just forego eating. I settled in with just drinking lots of water and whatever other fluids I could manage to get hold of.

It was about four of five days after that operation that I was starting to feel a little more human. I called for someone to bring me a urinal to relieve myself. A nurse, female type, brought the urinal and then pulled the curtains around the bed to give me some privacy. I flipped the clean sheets down from my torso and placed the urinal between my legs. After finishing I picked up the stainless steel vessel and was in the process of placing it down when I noticed a small black dot moving along on the white surface of the sheet, just below where the urinal had been. I leaned forward, uncomfortably, as far as I could and squinted to make clear the little critter that jumped around before me. It was a crab. The dreaded blight of the GI, in lay terms it was a body louse, scientifically referred to as "Pediculus humanus". The pain was not bad enough that I had been stuck in bed, the rotten little bastard must have come in on the clean, ah hem, sheets. I yelled for the nurse while almost leaping out of bed and into the wheelchair at the side of my bed. I ripped the sheets off the bed and threw them on the floor. The nurse came and I told her what was going on. I headed for the bathroom, hurting leg or not, to take a bath. The nurse took the soiled sheets and put them in a plastic bag and sealed it, and then she began to disinfect the bed. I took a bath while holding my plaster incased leg above the water. I had the crabs once before while in the hospital, after my last operation, they cause you to itch miserably, while they dig into the skin to do other gross acts against their humans hosts. I just was not about to undergo that kind of an ordeal for a second time.

I was feeling a little better by Easter, but still became sick at the sight of food, even after almost ten days on just water and medicine. Now, in a military hospital, or any other hospital run by public funds so to speak, there are groups of do-gooders that come around and try and spice up the lives of the patients, to make their days more interesting and so forth. A professional patient, which I had become, needs to be of stern stuff, and a person of good cheer. The professional patient has to keep smiling in the face of adversity, from such groups. Around the Easter season, you can imagine what kind of nuts, excuse me, visitors showing up to plague the wards.

I prefer to remember Easter for what it is; the remembrance of the Resurrection of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ from the grave. The culmination of all of Christ’s teaching is ratified by his Resurrection. I have nothing against the distribution of Easter candies and the like, but they are not the prime reason behind Easter season.

In any case one of the VFW Auxiliaries had come to the hospital to cheer up the boys, me included. It just so happened that I was in no mood to be cheered up, not that I have anything against VFW Auxiliaries; bless the ladies hearts. I heard a noise out in the hallway between wards 3A and 3B. A moment later the noise could be heard moving past the cast room and along the corridor, getting closer and closer to the ward. Then there burst forth a maelstrom of an event, the do-gooders on parade. A group made up of all women, all of whom were....shall I say, older, some dressed in rabbit suits, some in street clothes, all carrying baskets. They hopped onto the ward and moved toward us, coming down on us like one of the plagues of Egypt, distributing chocolate Easter eggs, jelly beans and rabbits. It was funny and a real treat, but to me the sight of even the candy had me retching, as the old girl bunny hopped up to my bed, hand outstretched, carrying a chocolate bunny.

It took a great amount of will power or some other inner strength to overcome the urge to either run them off or run off myself, even thought I knew I could not. I just smiled and pretended that I was thrilled with their concern for all of us.

I learned from the doctors a week or so after the operation, when I was becoming more lucid, that the damage to my knee had been far greater than they had originally anticipated. They started to hint at the possibility of discharging me medically, because of the amount of damage to my body, not only to my left leg, but the cumulative damage and damage that would probably not even shown up for years to come. The idea of being discharged or retired on a medical was not exactly what I had in mind. It would spell the end of my military flying career, and there is no flying anywhere that can come close in comparison to flying military, especially in combat. I was to think it over. I could think it over for years and I would still have the same feeling, my dreams were being flushed down the toilet.

I began to inquire about what a medical retirement was, what advantages I would have, and what disadvantages, if any. There were plenty of pilots in the Army at that time, the Warrant Officer Flight program was in full swing. Perhaps I could be an instructor pilot at one of the training schools, but then what if one of my legs froze up while flying, unlikely as it seemed to me then. I gathered that even if the Army would keep me on, I would be reduced to flying a desk. My military career potential would be severely limited in that capacity. I began to investigate the alternatives that were before me, none of them appealed to me just then, but I would have to look on the brighter side and make the best of whatever happened. I was smart enough not to let my love of flying dictate everything. If I did stay in the Army, what would happen when the Vietnam Conflict was over? Would I stand a good chance of being caught in a R.I.F. (Reduction In Force) because of my condition. The answer to that question turned out to be yes. The medical retirement started to look a little better after I analyzed those tidbits of information.

I tried to put off the inevitable, immersing myself in frivolous pursuits like wheelchair races; careening at breakneck speed down the long corridors of the hospital, zipping along past nurses, of high rank. I found it amusing that on one occasion, while in uniform in my wheelchair, a female nurse, a colonel saluted me. She had not know what rank my insignia was and thought that I was some high ranking officer from one of our allied militaries. We would race on two wheels, balancing on the rear, large, wheels and racing forward down a set course. Sanity won out, I eventually wheeled myself, at high speed, down one of the long halls to the VA (Veteran’s Administration) representative’s office and began to ask questions.

The doctors told me that my disability rating, according to the Veterans Administration's rating book would be at least 60% permanent disability. That rating would make me eligible for the Vocational Rehabilitation program. I would start to undergo testing; the same testing that B.T. and other of my friends had taken to determine my IQ intelligence quotient, my aptitude for training and the areas of highest aptitude. I reluctantly started to take battery after battery of tests, all of which were evaluated, in house, by the VA man. He was a fat old slob, a left over from WW-II. I think he was probably old then too. He was sort of...pig faced... would describe him adequately, a blob, he had a short cropped mustache on his fat face which caught the constant dribble of fluid that ran from his nose. He constantly had a tissue in his fat fingered hand wiping away the snot and drool which dripped, not only from his nose, but from one corner of his mouth. He was not what I would call someone that commanded respect. Through his position he got respect because he was the single determining factor in what training people would be able to enter. Well, maybe not the single determining factor, the tests were the ultimate ingredient but, what ever field he decided was best for the individual patient, what ever area the patient had a high aptitude in, regardless of whether there was a sincere interest in that area of aptitude, he made the decision. I began to realize, as I started taking all the batteries of tests, that this one man would weigh heavily in determining my future by his educational recommendations or lack there of.

More and more men were leaving the hospital; some had been there for only a few months others nearly as long as I had. I finally was taken off of the hard drugs and again gained more freedom of movement as the pain eased off. Most of my time was spent in a wheelchair cruising the halls of the buildings in search of something to pass the time. I returned to using hypnosis as a means of relaxing, during the period right after this operation, being on morphine I was not able to concentrate long enough to hypnotize myself. When I was not either, rolling around or practicing hypnosis I was being tested, or doing isometric contraction exercises to maintain the musculature of my left leg. I believed strongly that I could keep the muscles from atrophying by using the exercises in conjunction with hypnosis.

B.T. was even getting ready to go home to his parents and would be retired before too long. Doug had gone. Jim had left a few months before. I went to the club frequently to eat and spent time watching others dancing. Even after I got a walking base on my cast, the extra weight hanging on my left leg caused my hip to ache, so I was limited to rather slow deliberate movement. I spent evenings writing to Allie and we made plans to go visit Buddy and Katie when I took my next convalescent leave.

The tests I had started to take began with a number of general aptitude tests and progressed to more specific areas. My heart was not in the testing program, which probably hurt me. All my young mind could think about was being able to fly, and if I was not allowed to fly for the military; who could I fly for? I heard of a company in Louisiana, Petroleum Helicopters, Inc., which had the largest civilian helicopter fleet in the world. I decided that I would move south when ever I was discharged and see if I could fly for them. I was not ready to make a decision about college. I had scored high in some areas of study, but still could not decide.

The VA was trying to steer me into an area where I would or could be off of my feet, something that would not aggravate my disability. I still had trouble trying to convince and then view myself that I was actually going to be considered a disabled individual. This just could not be I had been on the track team, played football, spent a lot of time hiking and hunting, all of which required a considerable amount of walking. Was I to give up all of these activities because of my combat related injuries and present condition? I sure did not look hurt on the outside, how would I be able to convince others of my disability when I couldn't even convince myself that I was disabled. It would be hard to explain that I could not or should not do something, when I looked healthy. I was too young to just be flushed out of my career. I had made the decision to serve my country and now it did not want me any longer. I had been a “nobody” and had become a “somebody” in the military. I had been an outcast in school because of my religious beliefs; in the Army I was accepted. I tried not to think about it much, but it was too much of a downer. That time was the most depressing of my entire stay in the hospital. For those few days I had let the months of down time get to me. It was time to get myself together so that I could get the rest of my life headed in the right direction. There were a lot of men that took to drinking as an outlet for there frustrations, their lost dreams, their lost body parts. I was fortunate that my faith in God sustained me and helped me from getting caught up in it. I'm not saying the thought did not cross my mind or that I had not come close at times. But, Thank God, I did make it through.

My evaluation by the VA representative was finished by June of 1968 and he told me that I was going to be approved to go to college under the Vocational Rehabilitation Program. I had scored, according to the VA man higher on some of the, Fine Arts, tests than anyone that had ever taken the test at Valley Forge General Hospital, since he had been working there (probably since the Civil War). The test was a test for composition, art type composition. I was going to be approved to go to college in the area of Fine Arts. Fine Arts would be a terrific area for me to be in, Mr. Drool told me. I would not have to be on my feet all the time. There would be no heavy carrying of objects. It would definitely be the right field for me to get into. He was convinced of that, I was not! I had an ability as a kid to draw cartoons and other things with accuracy and knew that I had a relatively good eye for photography, but the idea of a career as an artist or what ever did little for me.

The days and weeks all seemed to blur together during that period after the operation on my left leg and knee. I was not depressed any longer, but I was sick and tired of being in the hospital. I was tired of having kept my hopes up for so long, only to finally have all of them trampled beneath the plaster of another cast. There was always someone around to play golf with and I continued to exercise by playing a round every few days. Card games became boring and very little of anything had meaning for me.

I remember sitting at the club one evening, a group of us had gone over; there was one enlisted fellow that we had taken along as a guest. He had both legs amputated below the knees; even he danced and had a good time. That was the icing on the cake. It reminded me of the story of the two guys on the street corner selling pencils. Both had both legs amputated at the hips and were sitting on skate boards. They were feeling sorry for themselves and complaining to one another. Just as they were into their moaning real good, a third man, who was just a head on a skate board came around the corner. The first two looked at one another and one of them said, Just when your feeling down there is always someone worse off than you are. My whole attitude changed after that. I would make the best of what ever came along, even if I didn't like it at all.

The day for my cast removal had finally arrived. I would see if my theory concerning exercising the muscles in the cast had worked. I had been telling myself, hypnotically and consciously, that when they took the cast off, was going to get down from the table in the cast room and walk away. I would see if the cast had made me a liar. It only took a few minutes for the boys in the cast room to slice apart the cast and pull it off my leg. They then began to pull off the cotton wrapping. The smell was rather bad, what with the dead skin and the newly grown hair all matted together in the cotton wrap. They worked at it and finally got most of it off. I thanked them and then pulled my pant leg down over the leg that was covered with white strands of cotton, patches of scaly skin and new dark hair. I swung my legs over the edge of the table and with some bit of hesitancy slid my feet to the floor. With trepidation I eased some weight onto the left foot; it was stiff and puffy from lack of use. Surprisingly the leg had, to my great delight, lost only a very slight amount of its diameter. I steadied my resolve and thanked them again for taking off the cast. Then I walked, stiffly, but walked, away from the cast room to take a bath, I was anxious to wash away the smell.

The three months that I had been in the long leg cast had seemed to drag on forever. I had enjoyed being able to go to the mess hall for my meals, even though it had been in a wheelchair and sometimes on crutches. It was easier, for purposes of handling a tray, to use the wheelchair. I was in heaven, no more crutches or wheelchair; I could walk to the mess hall, hang my cane on the edge of the tray and carry my own food, sit at a table and really enjoy myself.

One day while coming out of the mess line I noticed Colonel Smith, he had been, I believe, brigade commander while I was with "A" Troop. I was very happy that I not only recognized him, but that he too recognized me. Excitedly I placed my tray on a table and went to talk with him. He was very congenial and asked me to join him for lunch at his table. I asked him what had brought him to Valley Forge, he told me that he was only there for his annual physical, just routine.

We talked about Vietnam over lunch and he made several comments about how the unit had missed me and my flying ability. It made me proud to know that I had been remembered by my peers and superiors. He had flown over my crash site a day or so after the crash. He told me that he did not see how anybody could have survived the landing. The H-13 that I had flown last on that fateful day, almost two years previously, was just a small smashed up ball of broken metal. The trees I had gone into that day had been well over one hundred and twenty feet tall. The emergency procedure that I had learned during training had not cushioned the impact very much with the trees being as tall as they were. When the rotors entered the tree tops, that was the end of the cushion, the free fall from there had been over one hundred fifteen feet in a seated position.

During our conversation Colonel Smith asked me if I remembered one certain Scout pilot. I replied yes. He had been hit in the face with shrapnel from a short round, one that went off right after leaving the barrel of his own M-79 grenade launcher. He was in pretty bad shape, it had happened not too many days after I had left the country. That certain Scout pilot happened to be Warrant Officer Smith, the fellow that I had first flown Scouts with, the one who had introduced me to the Scout pilot's intimacy with death and dying. It was strange that at this point in my life my career was dying. We finished our lunch quietly after the news about Smitty, chatting occasionally; after all, field grade officers don't have that much in common with Warrant Officers anyway.

It looked as if not only my hospital days, but my Army days were beginning to draw to a close. My left leg after two operations was not much more stable than when they had started. The doctors were reluctant to do anything to the right knee because of that. I was still having pain in my lower back, X-rays did not reveal any damage, so they held back on any further testing.

My hospital records were sent to the Physical Evaluation Board, the recommendations of my doctors would be considered and the disposition of my case would be made. I waited during that time wondering if what the doctors had told me was true. Almost all of my friends had left the hospital; most had come and gone quickly during the time that I had been there. I had been in the hospital for over twenty months at that point. I was lonely and completely fed up with being in the hospital. I had gradually come to accept the fact that I would be leaving the military, after that realization, I wanted it to happen as soon as possible. I just wanted out. I was not sure of what I was going to do; I am no even sure if I really cared. All I knew was that since I could not stay, I wanted to go, and go quickly.

As far as college was concerned I still was not convinced that I liked the idea of entering a Fine Arts program. The VA had copies of all my records, all they would need would be the name of the school that I would choose.

I continued in physical therapy while I awaited the decision of the Physical Evaluation Board. With my friends all gone I spent a good bit of time writing. I wrote to Allie as well as Buddy and Katie. I took some days off and went home. I searched out people that I had known in school and spent time playing games and partying a little to pass the time. Some of the people that I spent time with had fathers that had been in combat in World War II. It was interesting to me to find that they felt a comradeship with me, that men my own age did not. That closeness of experiences shared held true even though the wars were different and the span of years was great between out ages.

I returned to the hospital to learn that my days there were very few. I received my traveling papers and began my check out procedure. I was discharged from the hospital and placed on leave status with my duty station address listed as my parent's home. I was retired on disability on 13 September 1968. Little did I realize that when I left the hospital, at the end of August in 1968, that my war had just begun.

My War - Installment 51

2009-12-23T16:44:00.000-07:00

The majority of my time, other than what I spent at PT and the few light duty assignments, that I had helped to invent, were spent back on the other side of the hospital with my friends.

Another Warrant Officer WO-1 moved in to a room next to mine a day or so after I had moved in. Marty was one of the men I have mentioned that had an arm wound of some sort, which had caused some nerve and tissue damage. He was undergoing reconstructive surgery and PT. Being close to one another in age we hit if off and became fast friends. Marty invited me to visit him at his home in Cold Springs Harbor, Long Island, New York some weekend. I readily accepted, wanting something different to do.

The heat of Indian summer was on us and the fan that I had bought for my room did little to quench the heat. Marty and I spent our leisure time in the air conditioned comfort of the "O" Club.

Being on the opposite side of the hospital had some grave aspects, one of those being that it was so close to the Commander of the Medical Holding Company. The CO was a major, he had never been in combat, and we figured that he was more than likely some joker out of an ROTC program. He was trying to make sure that everyone had something to do. He had no real authority over the officers in the hospital, because there was no suitable duty for them to be assigned to. He seemed to spend a lot of time trying to be a prick.

For some reason the Major got the idea that I was some sort of jerk-off or something, particularly because my hair was slightly longer than what he approved of. He never came right out and said anything to my face, but he definitely had a, distinct, dislike for me for some reason, why I just could not figure out. I had the feeling that sooner or later I was going to be able to show him how wrong he was about me, how or when I had no idea; I would just have to wait and see.

I received a letter from Buddy, my friend from flight school. He was making plans, with his fiancée, to be married in October, when he would return from Vietnam. Katie, his fiancée was going to have a friend that was attending college in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to be the maid of honor. Apparently Katie and Buddy had it in their minds to play matchmaker for old "unlucky in love" me. I was told in the letter how beautiful Katie's friend was, about all the things she was involved in at school, about how smart she was and on and on. Finally, toward the end of the letter I was informed that they, rather Katie, was going to get her friend to write to me. They wished me good luck.

I wrote and thanked them for their interest and concern for me; what I needed though was a flesh and blood girl that was close at hand, not someplace in Arkansas, halfway across the country from me, someone to romance and woo in person and not in a "paper chase" affair.

BT's friends were getting their show plans wrapped up and would be putting on their performance sometime in late November. The girls that he knew were terrific. I had gotten to meet some of them when they came to visit BT on one occasion during the middle of the week. One of the girls was absolutely gorgeous, the others were not bad either, she was simply, ravishingly beautiful, magnificent, superb, out of sight etc.. In lay terms she was strikingly beautiful. I looked forward more than ever to their show, after I had the privilege of meeting them.

As the summer progressed I became friends with a guy I had known briefly on Ward 3AB, an enlisted fellow that had lost a foot. He needed a ride home to New York City on the coming weekend and asked if I could take him there. He was Jewish, his father owned a plastics manufacturing company, on Long Island, or was it Manhattan? According to Jeff his folks were wealthy. How well-to-do I didn't know, but at that time I found those things to be unimportant, what a fool I was then.

I had never spent much time in big cities and had only been in New York City two other times that I could recall: once as a child, Mom had brought my brother and me on the train from Pennsylvania to Grand Central Station. We walked from there to The New York Museum Of Natural History, we could not afford a taxi. All I could remember was it was one hell of a long walk. We were going to spend the night there in the city, but my brother threw such a tantrum that we went back home that same evening. The other time was when we went to the docks to see Mom's brother and his family off. They were going, by ship, to Egypt, were he was going to be a missionary. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. We rode over in Dad's Willey's Jeep station wagon; I was in the back laying on a large trunk that was part of my uncle's baggage. We stood on the docks as the huge ship left. All the passengers were on different levels throwing streamers down at the waving throng of people on the dock. New York was a lot safer in those days.

We drove into town by way of the Holland Tunnel. We were about halfway through the tunnel I wished that I had held my breath. We went up town and drove my Healy into the underground garage at his parent's place. His parents lived in a pretty fancy place; at least it was fancy to a small town boy like me. His parents were nice, I sat and visited with them while their son called all the girls that he knew and purchased some pot, which I disapproved of. His parents knowing that I was an officer and that their boy liked me asked if I would try to influence him and help straighten him out. We sat in the living room and sipped Napoleon Brandy, I listened to the family history, both business and otherwise. The father did in fact own a plastics manufacturing company. His mother's family was in construction and her sister's husband, or the sister, owned controlling interest in Colombia Motion Pictures. It was all very interesting.

They told me that they had put ten million dollars in a trust fund for there son, he would receive it when he reach the ripe old age of twenty-four. I was spell bound by all the talk about such amounts of money; it was mind-boggling to me. I felt uncomfortable in the city, sitting there listening to this guys parents tell me all this stuff. I would have been far more comfortable in the woods somewhere shooting squirrels or just anything in the out of doors.

It seemed that I spent most of my weekend entertaining and be entertained by the parents rather than their son. I was glad when the weekend was over and we could go back to the relative calm of Phoenixville, Pennsylvania.

Speaking about Nervous

It was common practice around the hospital for the hospital's liaison officer to heckle the officer and enlisted patients, that were on the different wards, asking them to speak at public gatherings such as Lion's Clubs, or Rotary Clubs and the like. As luck would have it, since I was up and around, he started to pester me about talking to some civic organization. I finally conceded.

"Great, you'll be the perfect speaker having the Air Medal with "V" device. You'll be talking to a group of thirty to forty people at the Boeing Vertol Helicopter Company in Morton, Pennsylvania. Your topic will be "The role of the helicopter in Vietnam."

I was apprehensive to say the least. I had never spoken before a group other than a few classes in high school, and a small Civil Air Patrol meeting before I had gone to Vietnam, at least as far as I could remember. As the day approached for my little talk it appeared that more details of the plan came to light. There would be more people than just me going to this little gathering. A number of other patients would be going, in fact there was to be another speaker besides myself, a sergeant, a Congressional Medal of Honor winner. He was not at our hospital to my knowledge; therefore I did not know him. The Boeing Company was going to provide each of us with a female escort, chosen from volunteers within the company.

The big night arrived. Typically I had not prepared a speech, I figured that I could wing it for a few minutes, and at least the subject was one that I was totally familiar with. We rode to the Boeing Company in a small bus; there were about a dozen of us. We were driven to the front of the company cafeteria. When the door to the building was opened I about fell through the floor. The cafeteria was a huge cavernous room and there were approximately one thousand five hundred people or more present, give or take a couple of hundred or so, in my inward confusion I thought that I heard someone mention that number. Our escorts were seated in the front, all pretty girls (women) and nicely dressed in long formal looking dresses.

We were ushered onto the stage that had been set up in the front of the room, and asked to each take a seat there. The Medal of Honor winner and I were placed behind the podium and slightly to either side. I gazed out at the seemingly endless sea of faces that was the audience, and my heart pounded in my chest, I felt light headed and queasy - I hardly heard the MC introducing me by reading my citation for the Air Medal with “V” device. It was propitious that when my name was called I snapped out of my confusion and walked to the podium. On my way across the stage I reasoned with in myself that all of these people had come here to hear me. What I was going to say mattered to them. This I hoped would give me the confidence that I needed. "I know that they came to hear me, I know they came to hear me," I kept repeating to myself. I am glad that I did not reason that they came because their bosses told them that they had to.

I began to talk, my voice, to me, sounded as if it were quavering, and faintly echoing from somewhere deep down inside of me a hollow me. I knew for sure that my hands were very damp. I had them clamped tightly to the sides of the podium. My knees were knocking, I hoped not visibly or audibly, there were men behind me that would take notice if they were and would tell me about it. I could not loose face like that.

Later that evening I was told that I had talked for twenty minutes or so, I had not been aware of the time. During my talk the company photographer occasionally snapped a picture, startling me each time the flash bulb popped. One thing that I did remember, advice from someone at sometime in my life, was not to look the audience in the eye, just to look at the tops of their heads. After I had finished I was not even sure of what I had said. The crowd erupted in a round of applause and then a few people started to stand, others followed suit and soon the entire audience was standing clapping wildly to whatever I had said. I remember thanking the people and motioning for them to become quiet, but the applause continued for a short time. This was all too unreal. I thought that I must have been dreaming. I thanked them one more time and then took my seat on the stage, while the Congressional Medal of Honor winner was introduced.

They read his citation as an introduction as they had done for me. I was shocked. His citation was not very impressive at all, my Air Medal with "V" device citation sounded far more exciting and dangerous than his. I had always thought of the Congressional Medal of Honor recipients as almost legendary figures, hero personified, and all that. Maybe I was just disappointed. I had expected blood curdling acts of bravery and heroics....I later found out that he had retired on 100% disability. He had been shot one time and was missing one little finger on one of his hands, big deal. I had been wounded three times and had been in the hospital for over six months up to then, and knew plenty of men that were in far worse shape, being shot once and loosing a little finger was nothing compared to what some guys I knew had been through. Politics maybe he had been in an operation where a lot of men were killed and some field grade officer was trying to justify what had happened by writing up a survivor for the CMH. Heroes were cheap in Vietnam. There is a little hero in most of us, regardless of training, and there is also some chicken in everyone. I had witnessed the most unlikely men exhibit bravery and heroic actions; I had also seen men, that had gone through the same training as I had, and the first time that they had been shot at they went crazy, literally, and had to be removed from flight status. Awards are elements of a nether land, they never really express any human emotions or grasp the reasons why the acts were done. It is unfortunate that so many seem to be politically oriented.

After our talks we met our escorts, for the first time and were led to a smaller room where we were fed and presented with a few small gifts, a tie clasp, a necklace, and a money clip; tokens of Boeing's respect for us. Their desire for military contracts would be more like it. We had a very good time, our hostesses were charming, the food was good, and having gotten my speech out of the way I was calm enough to enjoy it all. I had been hoping that we would be given a tour of the plant, but alas we were not. I was happy to get back on our bus to return to the hospital; too much excitement for one evening. I thought to myself that I would rather be shot at than to have to do that again.

Aside from the usual hospital routine there was little to do that could be classified as exciting. The pain and suffering of close friends and other patients was accepted as normal run of the mill. If anything was happening in or around the hospital our little group knew about it.

One weekend a number of officers and enlisted men, all patients, I was among them, were invited to a picnic at Pete Martin's farm. Pete was a retired Saturday Evening Post writer. The farm was located fifteen or twenty miles from the hospital in southeastern Pennsylvania. Pete Martin had bought the farm and had remodeled the barn into a very livable and nifty dwelling. He gave us a guided tour of the place before we gathered on the patio for our meal. As we ate Mr. Martin explained his reason for inviting us to his barbecue. He wanted to pick our brains to see what we thought of an idea that he had in mind for a book. I am sure it was not his only reason. His idea was: he wanted to interview a large number of patients throughout the hospital and present a given set of identical questions to each. He wanted to tape record the patient's reactions to them. Questions like how they felt about their condition, what they perceived public reaction and opinion to be, and many other questions pertaining to Vietnam and the United State's involvement.

I thought it was an excellent idea, partly because I had the same idea. The only problem I had with his idea was that it burst my bubble. I figured that I had a snowball's chance in hell to go ahead with my project, since a veteran writer was going to do the same thing. I was just a green uneducated pilot. Even with the advantages I had, by being a member of the group to be interviewed, would be overcome by Pete's experience. Even if I did go ahead with my idea I believed that my chances of getting published were very slim to none at best, especially with the competition from Pete Martin

I could not let my disappointment show. I like the others offered my views and any other assistance that Pete thought that he might need. We resumed our partying and talking and enjoyed the hospitality that was being afforded us. I wish that I would have said something to Mr. Martin, perhaps he would have encouraged me or maybe we could have worked together.

I was continuing with my progressive resistance exercises and was up to thirty five pounds hanging on the machine as I worked each knee. There never seemed to be any change in the lack of stability, if any change was detectable it was a change for the worse, as far as I was concerned. The doctors told me to continue with the workouts.

"Whenever you reach forty pounds we will make a decision about what to do with your left knee," they would say.

I was discouraged; another delay in my return to active duty was something that I just did not want to hear. Time was passing me by as I sat, day after day, in the hospital and repeating the same old worthless activities, over and over. Occasionally I would enter periods of depression, like every one else. The prime reason for the depression, I thought, was what was happening around me. Men were coming and going, and I was still there. I had seen men come in with legs amputated; their stumps were worked on surgically, and then toughened up by the patient slapping the stump with his hands and so forth. They would be fitted with a prosthetic limb, undergo some rehabilitation therapy and physical therapy, then off they would go on a medical discharge or retirement. I was still there. There were exceptions to the rule of course. Some men continued on as I did. I thought about them and kept my feelings to myself. An officer was to be an example above all things, outward appearance counted measurably. Very often my left leg hurt so bad that I wished that I would have lost the darn thing from the start, and have it over with. My main driving force, during these times, was my desire to return to military flying though.

During this time I became aware of the fact that there was a full time Veterans Administration Representative located in the hospital. His job was to counsel the veterans that were going to be discharged from the military. He would give them batteries of tests to determine their aptitudes in various areas, then he would recommend programs, based on their test scores and where the program was offered at a school or college, or whatever. All of this depended, of course, on the individual’s disability or handicap. The VA man would not suggest that a person with no arms become a weaver, but then it might not have surprised me either.

There were two different programs available to those leaving the hospital. One was the GI Bill which gave a Vetean X number of dollars per month if they were full time students in a VA approved program and school. The other program was Vocational Rehabilitation. Voc Rehab was for men whose disability was rated at 30% or more. This program paid for books and tuition and some small expenses, in addition it paid "X" number of dollars per month living expenses. I learned from older veterans that neither of the programs was as comprehensive or as beneficial as the GI Bill legislation of previous wars and conflicts. This would have little effect on me, one way or the other, because I was a career man, I expected to take advantage of some of the Army's, in service, educational opportunities. I had it all planned out. Buddy and I were going to put in for direct commissions. With good service records and good OER's (Officer Efficiency Reports) it could be fairly easy, especially since the United States was involved in armed conflict; it was a prime time to put in for a direct commission. All I had to do was get out of the darn hospital and back to flight status. I craved it, I just had to get back out there flying somewhere, anywhere.

I worked like crazy at my physical therapy, hoping upon hope to build up my muscles, in order to support my knees with their lack of ligamental stability. I prayed within myself that the doctors were not just wasting my time with all the physical therapy work.

BT's friends finally came down and put on their show for the hospital. It was a musical variety sort of show. They staged it in the auditorium that had been designated as the Red Cross's area. The auditorium was packed. The men hooted and hollered at the beautiful women, we all thoroughly enjoyed the performance. The girls had apparently gone to a great deal of expense to stage the show for us. They all looked ravishing in their costumes, as they danced and sang their way into our hearts and memories, that evening. Being able to watch a group of good looking females like they were, was a real treat, for men that had been caged up in the lonely corridors of the hospital for so long. That group, putting on an extravaganza like they did, sacrificing their own time and money, meant more to me than if it would have been some high paid professionals, like the tours in Vietnam, that none of us saw.

Being a close friend of BT, I was privileged to spend some time with the members of the cast and, in fact, was invited to go to New York City to a cast party that was scheduled for the coming Friday evening. One of the girls and I seemed to hit it off. It so happened that the party was to be at her apartment in Manhattan. I was thrilled. Most of the cast were ordinary people, secretaries and tellers and others, that had volunteered to perform, they all had other jobs. Only one, the beauty I mentioned before was in show biz, most of the members of the cast were her friends.

During the performance I noticed one GI that I had heard about for some time, but had never seen. His neck was bent to one side in a downward fashion and he shuffled around. I had been told that he had been like that for nearly a year. Test after test had been run on him trying to determine the cause of his malady. None of the tests had ever revealed that there was any physical reason for his problem. Must be some psychological or psychosomatic manifestation, I thought to myself. I felt sorry for the guy they referred to as Hunch, (after the Hunchback of Notre Dame), nobody every called him that to his face, he stayed pretty much to himself. It must really have been uncomfortable to have to walk around like that all the time.

It was late in the evening when the cast left the hospital to return to the Big Apple. Nancy, the girl that I liked, said goodbye to me, and told me she expected to see me on Friday evening for the party at her place. She gave me her address and telephone number and then departed.

THE BIG APPLE REVISITED

Friday afternoon took forever to arrive that week. I got in my Austin Healy, I was giving my Jewish, Enlisted, friend a lift to the city; he was going to pick up a car that his parents had bought for him. He told me that I could stay at his place if I wanted or needed to. BT and some others were going to go up in another car.

All the way to the big city I day dreamed. Perhaps this girl was the answer to my girl problems. Sure she was a little older than me, but what did that matter as long as we liked each other. She worked for some big advertising company in downtown Manhattan, she had her career....maybe we could hit it off and things would work out. Who knew? It would not hurt to think positively in any case.

I dropped Jeff off at his parent's and went over to look for Nancy's apartment building. I had played it smart for a change and left my car parked in the garage at Doug's, I certainly did not want anything to happen to my wheels.

I rang the buzzer and when someone called down I told them who I was. The remote door release hummed, I pushed open the door and entered the building. I felt strangely out of place in the city, but I proceeded, bolstered by my silly dreams of love or infatuation or whatever it was.

The apartment was crowded with people, male and female. They milled about and chattered among themselves. I went unnoticed for some time while looking for Nancy. When I saw her I waved, she waved back; so far so good. I met some more of the people, and became a bit more at ease with my situation, thing were gong more smoothly than I had expected, everyone was very friendly, which helped a great deal.

There was food and drink galore. A hand appeared out of nowhere and handed me a cocktail, which I cordially accepted and drank deeply. After some small talk, visiting around and such, a couple of the girls from the cast decided that they were going to pick teams from among the people present, so that we could play some party games. I was having a great time, the perfect cure for my touch of depression from a few days earlier.

The girls began to choose team members, splitting us up evenly. There were a few more females than there were males, but that was fine with all of the men that were present. After the teams were organized, some vigorous, debate began over what game or games were to be played. I just sat back and watched and listened to the animated discussion, enjoying watching all the pretty women. I went to the small kitchen for some ginger ale while the debate slacked off. The apartment, like the kitchen, was smaller than I had originally thought, although it was nice and homey. Moving back to the sofa I heard someone say, "Let's play dirty charades!"

"All right!", came the reply from nearly everyone.

Nancy went to a cabinet and returned with a note pad and scissors. She quickly cut enough slips of paper for everyone to have a piece. The two teams huddled around their team captains and begin to write down ideas that the other team would have to try to act out.

I had never in my life played charades before, let along dirty charades. So, again I did more listening than talking.

"Over the shoulder boulder holder, how’s that", asked one of the girls. Nancy wrote it down on a piece of paper.

"Come on let's get some good stuff, you guys!"

"Yellow River by I.P. Daily.", whispered one guy sheepishly. "I had heard that one as a kid."

There were others, grosser, but all would probably prove to be very funny to watch while being pantomimed.

One of the girls quickly reviewed the rules of he game,...lucky for me. I was relieved that I would not be the first person to act out a phrase. I needed to watch for a while and get the gist of how it was done before it would be my turn to make a fool out of myself. It was hilarious watching the acting. The antics and motions were truly hilariously ridiculous.

A person would first hold up their fingers indicating the number of words in the phrase they were working with. Then a finger, or two…or what ever to indicate the word, within the phrase, that they were dealing with at that moment. A hand to the ear meant, sounds like. Then they would try to indicate something to give a clue as to what the sound was.

One pretty girl stood up and held up six fingers.

"OK, six words," her team yelled.

She held up one finger.

"First word," everyone chortled.

She spread out her hands.

"Spread?"

"Spread, your legs, I'm coming in for a landing."

She shook her head no, holding up three fingers. She was going to try another word first.

"Third word," they called out.

A hand went to her ear.

"Sounds like, come on show us."

She pointed at her breast.

"Sounds like tits." Everybody started to laugh.

The interest and actions were becoming more intent. She shook her head yes and chopped at her left hand with her right indicating that part of the word "tit" was correct. Then she squatted and pointed to her behind and grimaced.

"Shit, shit;, the third word is shit."

She animatedly smiled, shaking her head positively. It took us a while, but we finally got the phrase "Here I shit and wonder why."

When my turn rolled around I was nervous as a coot. I choose a slip of paper from the other team, unfolded the paper and looked at the sentence, it read: "Toe jam and crotch cheese." I had not heard the term crotch cheese before, toe jam, I had. I figured this would be an easy one to do.

I raised my hand and indicated five with my fingers.

"Five words?"

I shook my head indicating that they were correct. I pulled off my shoe and sock, stopped, then held up one finger before continuing.

"First word."

Again I shook my head yes, and then pointed to my toes.

"First word is toes."

I motioned yes and then did a chopping motion, like I had seen the others use before.

"Oh."

I motioned for more than that by pointing my hands at the team and moving my hands in a come to me type movement.

"Toe, first word is toe!"

I wildly shook my head yes. I jammed my toe under the edge of the couch while holding up two fingers.

"Second word is jam. OK. Toe jam."

I shook my head yes again and held up three fingers, then I made a plus sign with my index fingers. I pointed to my crotch.

My War - Installment 50

2009-12-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

The bus driver had been watching, in the rear view mirror, during the whole scene. The bus stopped suddenly and the driver leaped from his seat, rushed down the isle and grabbed the drunk. He proceeded to slap the crap out of him and to chew him out for bringing disgrace on the black race.

"I've been watching you in the mirror; BOY and I've had enough of your SHIT. You better straighten out your act. No wonder people dislike some blacks. Look at the way you talk."

"Yea, b-b-b-but dat whit ma'fuk...."

"White nothing. You’re acting like an ass. Get in the seat and don't move or I'll stop the bus again and knock the shit out of you. You understand BOY?"

"Yes sa, Sarg."

The rest of the ride was very quiet with most of the men dozing off for cat naps, some drunkenly snoring, while the bus droned homeward to the hospital. The bus entered the main gate of the hospital grounds sometime slightly after twilight. The green broadleaf trees and pines of the grounds were nothing but shadowy silhouettes in the semi-darkness of evening. We helped one another off of the bus and into our building. I was tired, and presumed that most of the others on the ward were just as tired as I. The ward was quiet. Nearly everyone was asleep by 2020 hours. I laid there for a time thinking about nothing in particular, before a dropped off to sleep.

All of a sudden there were explosions in the air near by us. Some men woke up screaming:

"MORTAR ATTACH, MORTAR ATTACH. OH MY GOD, TAKE COVER, THEIR GOING TO KILL US ALL"

Howls and blood curdling screams resounded from a few areas of the ward and from across the hall at our sister ward. It had been the Fourth of July fire works exploding that had triggered the episode. Even I for a brief moment had been startled, caught up in the sudden violence and emotion around me, as were many others. Nurses raced onto the darkened ward to settle the distraught men. How ironic that a celebration, that in effect praises those that fought for the freedom of our country, should set off such hysteria instead.

Periodically throughout the night men would reawaken screaming, some with just a single word, others with phrases that were indistinguishable. It seemed that most of the screaming kept coming from the same direction and it always woke me.

I got up early the next day, wide eyed and chipper, with my stomach aching for want of food. All that picnicking the previous day had given me quite an appetite. One bright spot was, that with the big national holiday over, we could settle back into the routines of everyday hospital life.

Physical therapy, swimming and all the other recreational activities were meant to help rebuild the broken bodies of the, war wounded, patients and to put them in a better mental state as well. There were a number of persons that it had the opposite effect on. Large numbers of patients, many of whom had been fine athletes just months before would never be able to partake in sports again. Some would find it extremely frustrating only being able to do limited activities. Others would get upset just looking at a sporting event on television, knowing that they would never again be able to do anything. There was great resentment because of it. There were times when I had similar feelings.

The doctors had prescribed progressive resistance exercises for me, to strengthen the muscles of the legs as well as those surrounding my knee joints. I was told that when I worked up to 50 pounds that they would reexamine the knees and decide what to do. I believed that they were not too sure of what the best procedure would be.

The orthopedic men had told me that, at best, with a very good repair; theoretically each time I would take a step, that my knee would be wearing away, due to the absence of any supporting ligaments and other odds and ends that I could not remember. I was not tremendously thrilled with that prospect. I did get the hint that things would never operate the same as they had in the past. I was reminded that this was also the case with the ankle. So, with each step my left ankle and knees were theoretically, gradually, wearing away. Did this mean that over the years I would get shorter and shorter on my left side, where the damage was worst, until I looked as if I was walking on the slope of a hill all the time, a senseless thought. It did concern me, the leg was already about one inch or shorter. Thinking about the short leg reminded me of a ridiculous story my Uncle Herb use to tell about how the cows in Switzerland had legs that were short on one side from walking on the steep mountain sides all the time.

"Enough feeling sorry for myself," I said, "I'll make the best out of whatever I end up with."

I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get out of the hospital. Before being at Valley Forge I had never been in a hospital for more than being born and getting my tonsils taken out, and here it was almost one half year that I had been in hospitals, starting in Vietnam and going half way around the world. I was totally convinced that there were other men that felt the same as I.

There seemed to me to be no real purpose to my life at that time, there were no assigned duties. I busied myself trying to help others accept their situations, so maybe it was not all meaningless. I thought that perhaps a girl friend might make a difference. Yeah, a girl friend just might make me feel better about myself; I did not have one though.

Wade's girlfriend, rather his fiancée by that time, was a real looker, a nice girl, a nurse, she had plenty of friends in nurses training, all civilians too. They had mentioned a girl to me one time. She was working at a funny farm hospital in Norristown, not too far away. She was completing some internship or something like that. I would have to check with my ol' buddy Wade and ask him to have his gir…fiancée check it out for me. Yea never know.

BT, Jim and I, being single, free spirits and such, spent more time with each other than we did with the married or engaged guys that were tied down by their attachments. We heard that there was a great place to go to eat in one of the nearby hamlets. The place was in Collegeville, Pennsylvania and was called, no less, the Collegeville Inn. It was a smorgasbord, all you could eat, which would make it worthwhile checking out or so we thought

We went over during the middle of the week on our first excursion there; many subsequent trips would eventually follow. The place was huge. I could not believe it. The seating capacity, listed on the signs we had seen on the way there said, "Seating capacity 1,500". Now that is a big restaurant. It was hard to visualize a restaurant that size. We found a parking place and made our way to the door and then inside to be greeted by a hostess. She led us to a nice out of the way table, to one side of the main dining room, the one where all the food was. A number of the patrons had eyed us strangely as we hobbled into the dining area and were lead to our table.

"Have you gentlemen ever been here at the Inn before?"

In unison "No Ma'am!"

"This is a smorgasbord, you my fill your plates as many times as you desire. We do ask that you do not waste any food. There is an appetizer table, a fowl table, fish and seafood table, meat table, vegatable table, and dessert table. There is a bar with various drinks, coffee, tea, milk etc. and a bread table. I believe I covered it all. Would you men care for a drink before your dinner?"

"Yes please."

"May I take your order?"

We all ordered a drink, chatted while relaxing and looked the place over. In the center of the room was table after table full of food in warming trays and under heat lamps. I decided to take a look even before our drinks came.

The appetizer table was unreal. There were boiled shrimp, cheeses, lox, kippers and all sorts of tasty looking little morsels. I could have made a meal from just that table. I took a dinner size plate and heaped it high with shrimp. I picked up a soup bowl and ladled it full of cocktail sauce, flipped a few slabs of Swiss cheese on top of the shrimp, and then I went back to our table and sat down.

"You certainly are uncouth Rollason. Where did you learn to eat, in a pig sty? You’re not supposed to have an appetizer like that."

"You sound like my father. He always used to tell me that he was going to get me a trough to eat out of. Up yours I'll eat what and how I please, smart ass. "Oink, oink, oink," they chuckled as they in turn got up to check out the appetizers.

The drinks had come. I swilled a little down and then started to munch on my shrimp and cheese. Shrimp had always been one of my favorites even though we did not have them as often as I would have liked too. But then that is what makes some things special sometimes, being deprived of something for a while causes one to appreciate it more when it does come.

Jim helped BT while I sat eating my rather large shrimp cocktail. When the two of them returned to the table Jim was carrying two dinner plates full of appetizers, mostly shrimp, a waitress followed behind carrying soup bowls full of cocktail sauce.

"Who did you two say was uncouth?"

The array of choices was truly amazing: beef, ham, lamb, pork, all prepared in various styles giving a number of choices for each meat. The same was true of the fowl table and all of the others. My favorite was the seafood table. I had thought that having so many shrimp was next to heaven, at the seafood table there was a large pan full of crab claw meat, in butter. I had a full plate of that before I even thought of trying selections from any of the other tables.

We spent a number of hours feeding our faces on one thing after another until we could eat no more; only then did we allow ourselves some time to rest from our labors, before we went to the dessert table.

We waddled out to the car, canes crutches and other aids in hand, and returned to Valley Forge General Hospital by way of Valley Forge Battle Field.

It was interesting to find out later from my mother that Collegeville was named such because of the college that was located there, Ursinus College. I was completely flabbergasted when my mother told me that Ursinus had been started by my mother's great, great grandfather in 1869. He had been a German Reformed minister, from the old country and had been instrumental in the colleges founding. Originally, the German Reform church wanted to start the college wanting it to be a seminary that could be an alternative to the heretical Mercersburg College, in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania.

CUTIN' UP AGAIN

I had noticed a number of months earlier that I had pain in my right wrist and had asked the doctors about the lump, which had grown there and had been progressively getting larger. I did not know what it was and so I was concerned, especially after having seen that healthy looking grunt go to the OR and come back minus one entire arm. I just did not want to take any chances, plus the darn thing hurt and was beginning to severely limit the movement of my right wrist. To top it off it was interfering with my golf game.

The doctors told me that it was a ruptured joint sheath, tendon sheath, or nerve sheath I could not remember which it was. It was called a ganglion syst, they use to be called Bible tumors, because one old home remedy was to take a large family bible and bring it down hard across the lump bursting it.

As sore as the lump was I surely was not pleased with the idea of it being hit, it had hurt bad enough when the doctor poked and probed at it with his fingers. They believed that the tendon sheath had probably been ruptured, sort of like a bubble on a tire's inner tube, when I had crashed. During all the hospital time it had just grown in size to the point where it was hampering my wrist movement. I was asked if I wanted it removed. I sure did. I had nothing better to do at that time anyway.

The date for surgery was set up extremely fast. There must have been a lull in the action. I asked if I could have a regional block so that I would be able to watch the operation. After some, pleadingly convincing talk on my behalf, it was agreed that I could have the regional block and stay awake during the entire operation in the inner sanctum.

As usual the night before the operation I was awakened around midnight so that I could take a sleeping pill. In the morning I was wheeled away on a gurney, this time fully awake and in control of my senses, to the Operating Room.

The anesthesiologist, Bill, was the only doctor present in the OR when I arrived. He greeted me and then asked if I could slide over onto the operating table. Once in place he set me up for an IV and then briefly told me how the regional block would be administered. I was beginning to be a little leery of my choice. While we chatted ,Rick and Jim the two orthopedic doctor friends entered the room and said hello while they started to get things ready for the kick off.

Bill took a small syringe filled with a Novocain-like substance and injected it in the soft area between my shoulder blade and collar bone. Then he picked up a monster of a syringe with a thick long needle. The needle must have been at least six or more inches in length. He began to insert the needle down into my chest through the previously deadened spot. It was an extremely eerie feeling, watching the huge needle disappear inside of my chest.

"When I hit the right spot your fingers will begin to tingle a little, Sam, said Bill."

Previous to the big needle he had placed a rubber tourniquet around my upper right arm.

"OK, Bill, there beginning to tingle, I said."

He moved the needle up and down and around inside to make sure of the spot and then pushed the plunger slowly down, the buzzing tingle in my fingers increased. The doctors waited a few minutes and then one of them picked at my wrist with a sharp instrument. To my dismay, during the time that Bill was aiming Big Bertha, a nurse had draped a sterile cloth between my eyes and my hand. "Crap, you lousy buggers, your double crossed me. I won't be able to watch after all.

"Can you feel that, Sam?"

"Damn right I can feel it, it’s a dull feeling, but I can definitely feel it."

They waited a few minutes longer and then poked at the wrist again.

"Can you feel that?"

"Yes!!"

"No you can't, your just feeling the pressure. Your arm is completely paralyzed."

I protested. "Paralyzed my behind, your telling me I can't feel it, it is my arm."

They began to cut. I could not actually feel pain, but I sure a shell knew they were cutting and where they were cutting. Damn it was uncomfortable. I moved my fingers to prove to them that my arm was not paralyzed.

"Don't move your fingers, Sam," one of them said in a surprised sounding voice.

I could feel them pulling and cutting.

"You all right, Sam," asked Bill.

"Yea, just honky dory, but I can feel it all."

He released the tourniquet from my arm.

"I'll have to buy you a drink at the club in a day or so, sound alright?"

"Great, Bill."

The operation did not take long, but then I was not timing it. I would guess it lasted, perhaps, twenty-five minutes or so, and the drapes were removed. By that time my arm had gone almost completely dead, I could no longer move a finger or feel anything at all. It was just there.

I was pushed into the Recovery Room. The nurse there checked me and when she realized that I had a regional I was rolled back to my bed on the ward. I got off of the gurney under my own steam. When I stepped off onto the floor my right arm, bandaged rather thickly and splinted, fell limply and unfeelingly down at my side. I climbed onto my bed and the nurse gave me a stack of pillows to elevate the arm to keep it from swelling. The operation had not been too bad after all, even with being able to feel most of it. It was a strange feeling having an arm that I was just barely aware of. I had to move my right arm by using my left hand and arm to lift the right one where I wanted it. I thought about it. The feeling must be very much like that of a paralyzed person with no sensor or motor nerves working.

I called my parents sometime within the next day or so; they told me that my childhood best friend had just come back from Vietnam. He was in Harrisburg visiting his parents, they had moved back to Pennsylvania from Florida. He had heard from his parents that I was at Valley Forge General Hospital and he wanted to get with me on the weekend. It was going to be a great weekend, I thought, I had not seen Mickey since he had moved to Florida, when we were in the seventh grade. We use to do everything together, to include fighting one another, at least, once a year.

I went home that weekend, and Mickey called shortly after I had arrived at my parent's home.

"Hey Sam, how about the two of us going up to my folk's cabin at Pine Grove Furnace. We'll do a little fishing. We can talk about Vietnam or whatever."

"Sounds great Mick, let's do it, we can go in my car. When can I pick you up?"

"Sometime around 7:00 PM would be fine."

"Great at your parent's apartment, I asked?"

"Yep."

Pine Grove, I had some good memories from the few times I had gone there with Mick and his family. Swimming in the ice cold water of the old quarry, hiding in the bushes behind the women's bath house....all the knot holes we used....we peeked through the knot holes to see our first glimpses of mature, good looking, nude, fabulous, stupendous, female figures. Drooling and panting in the bushes, trying not to make too much noise, hoping that we would not be discovered. Laughing and telling jokes to one another, snitching potato chips and marshmallows from unattended, secluded, picnic spots, soda pop cooling in the icy mountain streams, ah the streams; full of trout. There were fires in the cabin fireplace, roasting the snitched marshmallows, lying awake talking and telling jokes and stories in the darkness; the scent of pine on the evening air, wonderful to remember. The good old days of youth, without responsibilities remembered.

I went for Mick a few minutes before 1900 hundred hours. He was ready when I arrived. I had dumped the "lemon" Jeepster that I had been having so much trouble with and had bought a classy, brand new, 1967 Austin Healey 3000 Mark III sports car. It had a straight six cylinder engine, two speed rear end, four speed manual transmission, real walnut dashboard and a convertible top. I wish I still had that car. Mick stashed his gear in the trunk. I had not seen him in quite a few years. He was at least six foot two or three inches and well over two hundred pounds, I just couldn't get over how big he had become. He jumped into the car and we drove out of Harrisburg, headed for the country.

Mick told me that he had been a "Tunnel Rat" in Vietnam. They were the men that went down into old VC tunnels and would rout out anyone or anything that was still there, and then blow up the tunnels. It sounded like it had been pretty exciting, not to mention dangerous. I told him a little about what I had done while in Vietnam and how things were going at the hospital. At that particular time I had a brace and built up shoe and an elastic knee cage brace on my left knee, my right arm and my wrist was still thickly bandaged and splinted from the recent surgery. Whether I was a war hero or not I could not say, although I might add, I did look the part.

It had been many years since I had been to Pine Grove Furnace, so Mick directed me. We took all the secondary country roads, the kinds that are very scenic and fun to drive, especially in a sports car. On the way we would stop occasionally at small taverns and have a beer, and then we would continue. Between 2130 hours and 2200 hours we stopped by another country tavern which promised to be entertaining,. There was to be a small combo playing that evening. We thought we would grab a bite to eat and a few more beers before driving the rest of the way.

We parked near the middle of the gravel lot and then walked into the building and took seats at the bar, which was almost empty. We sat on the side away from the dance floor. Mick and I ordered sandwiches and beer. We sat, sipped, munched and swapped some war stories. The occupants at the other wing of the "el" shaped bar had looked us over when we had come in. We continued to sit paying them no mind.

After some time we left our beers and strolled to the dance floor to have a look see. There were more people there than I had expected to see, scattered around at small tables, covered with checkered table clothes. The small tables were all near the walls of the large room. In one corner, at a larger table, sat two pretty nice looking girls. We listened to the music for a few tunes and then decided that we would ask the two girls, sitting by themselves for a dance.

We approached them in the dimly lighted room. The girls giggled, looking first at us and then one another. We could not hear what they were saying and neither of us was any good at lip reading. I imagined that they were probably saying things like: "Oh no, which one of us is going to get stuck with the cripple? Should we just say no to the both of them? How is he going to dance with all that junk hanging on him?" And so forth.

We moved toward them and politely asked if they would care to dance. They, to my surprise, accepted our invitation and got up from their table. The music began, mercifully it was a slow dance, and I was quite relieved. I stumbled around a bit, feeling very awkward, with my bandaged arm around the girl’s waist, even if it did feel good; other than that everything went well. We escorted the girls back to their table and cordially thanked them before we returned to our stools at the bar. We ordered fresh beers and then resumed our war story swapping.

As we talked we noticed that the men that were sitting at the other wing of the bar had become more interested in us and what we were saying. They began making obscene gestures in our direction. As if on cue Mick and I looked at one another, turned as if looking for the receiver of the insult, then we turned back around, having seen no one, ignored our hecklers, and we began talking again.

The boys across the bar were duly insulted by our ignoring them and their actions; they began to get verbal with their insults.

"Hey you queer war mongers, why don't you get out of here."

"Yea, you creeps heh, big fella, why don't you take your monkey out and feed him a banana."

Mick replied. "You better watch what you’re saying or my friend will pound a banana up your ass!!"

"Great retort," I thought to myself. "This evening may contain more action then we had originally planned on."

Throughout the remainder of the evening, as we sat and chatted, those same guys continued to verbally abuse us, apparently, the best we could figure was because we were Vietnam Veterans. We could not figure it out why should that be a bone of contention, it just didn't make any sense to us.

As closing time began to creep up on us and the bartender began cleaning up, I had the distinct feeling that something was going to happen, it had to be instinct. On my suggestion we went to the men's room. The idea was to splash some cold water on my face, to wash away the smoke of the tavern and the sleepiness from my eyes, just in case something did happen. We left the men's room crossing the barroom on our way to the exit, my coat was over my right arm. I looked around, the hecklers were already gone. Relief, perhaps I had been wrong.

Mick pushed open the door, the night air of the mountains surrounded us with its dark briskness. The parking lot seemed strangely quiet. It had appeared that a great number of the building's occupants had left; at least it had looked like it when we had come through the bar to go out. The parking lot still had plenty of vehicles, even with the few that were, just then leaving the area.

Mick walked to the passenger side of my Austin Healy, I stumbled along the gravel surface to the driver’s door and stooped down carefully, so as not to aggravate my back or scratch the paint, and searched for the key slot. I opened the door to place my coat and cane behind my seat. I was just about ready to slide into the driver’s seat when I was jumped from behind. My assaulter's hands closed around my neck, from behind, his fingernails dug into the flesh near my Adams apple.

My immediate and automatic reaction, due in part to my training was: that I side shuffled left, while turning my head slightly, all the while I was moving my right arm forward and then, I quickly swung it back, with great velocity and force, aimed at the opposite side of my attacker’s crotch. I could feel my cast impact and continue its arc, lifting the person behind me off of the ground. His fingers peeled away from my neck and throat leaving long scratches in their wake. Before he even had a chance to double up in pain I spun around and punched him square in the face, again automatically using my right bandaged hand. That fellow's buddy saw him hit the dust and came to his aid instead of confronting Mick. I dropped him with a short quick punch from my cast hand, before reaching to retrieve my cane from the car. With cane in hand I was ready for as many as were going to come at me. I had it in my mind to beat the shit out of any one that wanted to fight.

I moved out from in between the two cars where my foes lay, I was crouched low, cane ready. To my left Mick came from the other side of the car with one of the two girls we had danced with hanging onto him, screaming at the top of her lungs “Don't! Please don't hit him." To my right, I recognized the bartender; he spoke rapidly as he approached.

"Hey fellas' their friend has gone for a gun, you two had better get out'a here quick!! I'm sorry for the trouble you two Vets have had."

I was not going to argue with the bar keep or with the gun he said was on its way. Mick and I got into the car, fast. The big six cylinder sprang to life smoothly as I turned the key. I spun the tires, a practice I despise, as we roared out of the parking lot and continued on our merry way.

It was late, rather early morning and we still had a pretty good distance to drive. Mick had an idea. He knew an old man, not too far from where we were at that time, a trapper by trade, we could probably hole up there for the night and save having to open his parents’ cabin and start a fire and all. It sounded fine to me, even though I found it hard to visualize some old man being very pleased to be awakened in the middle of the night and imposed upon.

To my surprise, he was pleased to see us, he swore there was no inconvenience in the least. He ushered us in, we talked briefly. His cabin was very small, but it was warm and cozy against the chill of the mountain night. Jess gave us each a blanket and graciously offered us floor space by the warm hearth and its flickering fire. I curled up in front of the fire, making myself as comfortable as possible with my shoes and brace and clothes on and was soon fast asleep.

We woke up early. The fire had died to only a few embers, the cabin was chilled. I rolled over and attempted to get up to stoke the fire. To my chagrin my left knee was frozen in a half bent position, try as I did, I could not straighten my leg. "This is going to be another new experience," I told myself. I walked over in a stooped painful manner and picked up a few pieces of firewood and then nursed the fire back to a useful and warming size, putting the coffee pot on to heat.

I sat on the hearth aggravated and in pain. I could not see how we would be able to finish our trip to Mick's cabin. The scratches on my throat were sore, not to mention unsightly. I wondered how I would explain my condition to my parents: the locked knee was one thing, the scratches quite another. I hobbled outside to see where Mick and the Old man were. The cabin in the early morning light was definitely rustic, set in among the trees at the foot of a mountain. The smoke from the fresh fire curled out of the old chimney and the smell of the wood burning filled the air around the cabin.

Mick and the Old man came back to the cabin; he, the old man, and I had coffee while we talked. I mostly listened and drank the dark brew. Some time later we left and started back toward Harrisburg. I was really beginning to worry about whether the doctors had been telling me everything that was wrong with me or whether they had been holding back. They certainly had not mentioned or even hinted at the possibility of weird stuff like the locked knee and the continuing constant pain. I was anxious to get back to Valley Forge and have it checked out.

I dropped Mick off at his parent's apartment and went home to Dad and Mom’s, depressed. I made up some cockamamie story to explain my scratches and the fight I had been in. The story really was not far from the truth, the setting was the only real difference. I enjoyed the rest of the weekend with my folks.

After such an eventful weekend, it actually felt good to get back to the hospital, to some semblance of order and regimen, not to mention, it was my home at the time. I learned when I came back that I was going to be transferred to the Medical Holding Company. Actually I had already been assigned to them; I just did not know it. I was to move to a private room, private rooms were not much in that hospital, a small cubicle with a bed and whatever you could steal, or find, finagle or bring in to make it homier. The room was on ward 29D, which just happened to be on the Tuberculosis wing of the hospital. That little fact did nothing for me. I was assured that there were no problems or conditions adverse to my health by being there; even though the active TB patients were only a few wards away. I made my room comfortable by adding a few items to its meager contents; I brought my radio and Sony TV along with some books and other odds and ends. I was pretty well settled in and comfortable even so I was nervous being close to the TB ward.

My War - Installment 49

2009-12-20T09:00:00.004-07:00

Ken, my black friend had decided to have his foot amputated, had given up on wearing the six inch thick sole on his built up shoe. I felt he had made the right decision. I believe I would have come to the same conclusion.

A lot of the men that had been on wards 3A and B, when I had arrived at Valley Forge, had left the hospital to either return to duty, or had taken medical discharges, at the doctor's recommendations. Typical military, you get to know some men, learn to appreciate them and the next thing you know they are gone.

LIGHT DUTY

Rick, one of the orthopedic surgeons, knowing my interest in medicine asked me if I would like to help out in the cast room, on my ward, on a part time basis. I was very interested. I thought I would learn some useful skills. The pain in my ankle, the severe pain from the operation, was pretty well gone, so I jumped at the chance for the light duty work of the cast room, on an as needed basis.

I was called to the cast room one day to assist a couple of the doctors in putting a halo on a man. The halo which I am referring to is a large flat ring of metal approximately twelve-to-fifteen inches in diameter, depending on the size of the patient’s head. It has a number of threaded holes at evenly spaced intervals in the outer surface. At the rear portion of the halo there are two receptacles for accepting three eight inch stainless rods, there are also lock nuts on these receptacles. The halo is used on patients with broken necks to hold their heads, and therefore their necks, in position. The plan of action was to put a halo on this man that would enable him to move about freely, rather than being confined to a bed.

We removed his old cast, which resembled a sleeveless snow parka complete with hood; it went from his waist, all the way up the neck and partially over the head. The cast was carefully removed while the patient remained in a lying position on his back. I was given the job of holding his head motionless, acting as a human clamp so to speak, while the doctors worked. The man was naked on the cast table; he was moved carefully onto his side so that his back could be washed. I continued to gently, and nervously hold his head. I could just picture myself dropping this guy's head and severing the spinal cord.

"You know young man you have quite a few "Will-Knots" here," said one of the doctors.

"Will Knots? What's dat?"

"You mean, what are they? They are little balls of shit hanging onto the hair around your ass hole, due to your not being able to reach and wipe yourself properly. It is not uncommon in the least. Why are they called "Will-Knots, you ask? Because, they are dried onto the hair and just will not come off; that is unless they are cut off."

Everyone in the room began to laugh, the patient included. It was tricky trying to keep his head and neck in position during that one. Heads are surprisingly heavy objects and they become incredibly heavy when they have no internal support. They become even heavier after holding one for a stretch of time. My thumbs were beginning to hurt and it reminded me of a guy I had seen at the snack bar that had his great toe grafted on in place of his missing thumb.

The doctors fashioned a plaster vest on the ex-grunt and then picked up the halo. Bolts were placed into some of the threaded holes of the halo; the bolts were stainless steel and had needle-like tapering points. These points would be screwed in to the guy's skull. The rods would go into the brackets on the back of the halo and were bent to align the head and neck to allow some traction-like force to be applied to the neck. The rods, after being bent to shape, would then be plastered onto the back of the vest and we would be done. I was glad to get it over with. My arms ached from supporting his head. While I was holding his head I had the feeling that his head was attached to his body by a large limp, rubber tube, it was kind of scary. They must have given him some type of muscle relaxer or something to keep his neck muscles so limp.

I was getting about very nicely with my walking cast other than my knees hurting. The left hip bothered me some too. It had to be the extra weight of the cast a believed. My back was doing OK as long as I did not have to bend over very much.

BT had gotten his leg and crutches and was making progress daily in beginning to walk. He spent some time each day at PT working at it. He had forearm crutches, one to the left, had been modified so that he could lay his prosthetic arm in an aluminum trough and strap it down with Velcro fastenings. It was an ingenious arrangement. It was exciting to see him making progress. I was proud of him.

We had made friends with most of the staff and had enjoyable evenings at the club watching the others dancing to the music of the Mama's and Papa's, the Beatles and others. I had never been much of a dancer so I was not very enthused when one of the RC girls asked me to try my hand or rather my feet at it. Being the good sport that I was, I tried anyway. I hoped she had on steel toed shoes, she would have needed them if I had accidently stepped on her toes with my cast.

OUT AND AROUND

The shorter my time got for being in the cast the more excited I became. I was making all sorts of plans for things to do. I had taken money from the bank and put it down on a new Jeepster convertible and used it to go home occasionally to visit.

In Paxtang my friend's girlfriend finally set me up with a blind date. On the night of the double date he picked me up in his car, a two door Rambler, and we went for the girls. I knew his girl friend, I didn't know my date at all. She had gone to a different High School.

We drove to his girlfriend, Sue’s house; she was waiting by the front door. The three of us then drove to pick up Jessica. I was introduced to her. She and I climbed into the back seat of the two door blue Rambler. Jessica, from what I had been told, was on the rebound. She had just broken up with a long time boyfriend. It had been the boyfriend that had done the "breaking it off" and she was nervous at going out with someone else.

For some reason, I thought she would probably come on strong trying to overcome her feelings of rejection. She was not a bad looking girl by a long shot, long hair teased up a bit on top, light brown in color. She was small of build, fairly great petite figure-she looked wonderful, although no raving beauty, but she was very attractive. In my present condition of depravity from female company, I thought I could handle it.

The plan for the evening was to go to Papa Dino's Pizza Parlor and then to a drive-in movie theater. Ah, was I right about the girl? As soon as we drove off she grabbed my hand and held on to it tenderly, as if she had not held a hand in years. We had a good dinner, a couple of large pepperoni pizzas; Papa Dino's had the best pizza in the entire Harrisburg area. We left the pizza parlor and started cruising to the drive-in.

Doug and I remained quiet as the girls animatedly talked their girl talk. Sue would occasionally throw her arm over the back of the front seat and look at Jessica while chatting. Doug lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply before blowing a blue-gray stream of smoke out of the window. I sat still, half listening to the girls and watching their facial expressions, and bodily movements, including the way their breasts strained against the thin material of their blouses.

We were about halfway to the theater when Doug threw his cigarette butt out of the open window. I was day dreaming as usual. Jessica was seated behind Doug and therefore I was behind Sue. Sue swung her arm over the back of the seat again to face Jessica and continue the conversation..

"Ohhh, my goodness your hair is on fire. Jessica your hairs on fire!!"

Doug's cigarette butt had gone out the window an the had been blown back in the rear window and landed on top of Jessica's head. I reached over and picked the butt from out of her hair, it had fallen down into the fluffed up, teased up hair. Fortunately it had done no real damage. The smoke that had been rising from her head was mostly from the wind fanned butt. I was glad that no damage had been done, it had not even fazed her; she was a real trooper. I flicked the butt out of the window and then consoled Jessica, to her delight and mine. The movies were lousy, the evening was very nice.

Spring was coming to a close and the heat of summer was already upon the hospital. With the hot weather came a military readiness exercise. The purpose of the readiness drill was to see if the hospital could handle an emergency where there were large numbers of simulated causalities dumped into the system within a short period of time.

Most of the enlisted, ambulatory, patients were to be used as incoming patients. I was quite pleased that the officers were not obliged to be included in the hospital's war games.

During the exercises, a good natured EM had been chosen, along with others, to play persons en route to the booby ward. This one fellow thought it would be fun to act the part of a lunatic, since that was what he had been chosen to be. He had taken off at a dead run, yelling and acting loony. He made it to the, chain link, fenced perimeter of the hospital grounds, grabbed hold of the fence's wire mesh and started shaking the fence like a monkey, caged at the zoo.

MPs whom I had little respect for to start with...if there was an MP on fire on the ground, I wouldn't pee on him to put him out...were patrolling the grounds. The MPs, as one might suspect, had at least one man that was not aware of the exercises that were taking place. He must have been living in a vacuum or in a drunken stupor not to have known. This particular MP saw the man, in hospital blues, shaking the fence back and forth screaming. He must have had a short circuit in the head. He yelled halt at the man on the fence and then he drew his weapon and shot the GI in the back. When I heard about it I was not surprised. The MP ended up in the loony bin, the GI was taken in for emergency surgery.

Eight weeks had passed since I had surgery; I was definitely ready when the doctors informed me that the plaster could come off in a few days. I was ready to travel so I had started thinking about getting some other vehicle. The Jeepster that I had bought had been in the shop most of the time since I had gotten it and I was becoming fed up with it.

The cast came off and I got a chance to see the doctors’ handiwork on my left ankle. It was not just the ankle as I had thought. There was a scar that began halfway down the outside of my left foot and meandered up around the ankle and about ten inches or so up my leg. I could feel, with my fingers, where they had drilled a hole in the neck of the fibula (the bump on the outside of the ankle) it was a bit strange to think about. I got my built up shoe and short leg brace, along with orders to begin physical therapy again. My knees were still bothering me so the doctors included some exercises which they believed might help them.

On 3 June 1967 I was told to go to a meeting room on the second floor of one of the hospital buildings. Jim, BT and the other guys went along. We heard that there was going to be an awards ceremony. I was kind of taken aback. I had forgotten that I had been put up for some awards. Colonel Serfas, the hospital commander, did the presentation of the awards and read the written citations before the assembled group of patients, staff, and some local news people.

I felt like an ass when I was called up to the front of the room, I was dressed in wrinkled hospital blues with my cane and brace, my hair needed trimmed, I just did not feel that there was much dignity in the proceedings when the only person wearing a uniform was the Colonel. I had envisioned receiving my award while in dress greens or dress blue uniform. Oh, well. The Colonel began to read the Citation. "Warrant Officer Rollason:

HEADQUARTERS
1ST CAVALRY DIVISION (AIRMOBILE)
APO San Francisco 96490

GENERAL ORDERS 3 June 1967
NUMBER 2922

AWARD OF THE AIR MEDAL FOR HEROISM

1. TC 320. The following AWARD is announced.

ROLLASON, SAMUEL H.W3154252 WARRANT OFFICER W-1 United States Army
Troop A, 1st Squadron, 9th Cavalry.

Awarded: Air Medal (Eighth Oak Leaf Cluster) with "V" Device
Date action: 1 Novermber 1966
Theater: Republic of Vietnam
Reason: For heroism while participating in aerial flight. Warrant Officer Rollason distinguished himself by heroism in action on 1 Novermber 1966, while serving as co-pilot of a UH-1D lift helicopter during a combat assault operation near Bong Son, Republic of Vietnam. Warrant Officer Rollason was at his position on the lift aircraft perimeter on a landing zone when a nearby infantry unit made contact with the enemy. Without regard for his own safety, Warrant Officer Rollason began placing suppressive fire from his vantage point. Observing two wounded soldiers being assisted to the rear, Warrant Officer Rollason covered their movement across an open field with accurate fire. When the wounded reached the aircraft, Warrant Officer Rollason supervised the loading and administering of first aid, although receiving heavy fire. He then took off under a hail of enemy fire and delivered the casualties to the nearest field hospital. After the successful evacuation, Warrant Officer Rollason Returned to the battle area twice with infantry reinforcements. In both instances, Warrant Officer Rollason made extremely difficult approaches into confined areas with a heavily loaded aircraft while receiving a heavy volume of hostile fire. His outstanding display of courage and determination under fire is in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and reflects great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.

Authority: By direction of the President, under the provisions of Executive Order 9158, 11 May 1942, as amended by Executive Order 9242-A, 11 September 1942.

FOR THE COMMANDER:

OFFICIAL: GEORGE W. CASEY
Colonel, GS
Chief of Staff

DANIEL B. PLYLER
LTC, AGC
Adjutant General

Congratulations Mr. Rollason," he finished as he pinned the medal on the chest pocket of the hospital blues, then he shook my hand, as a warm smile spread across his face.

I sat contained in my own little world during the remainder of the presentations, clapping when appropriate, just looking at the medal and remembering Vietnam and my friends and classmates that were still there; longing to be with them, longing to return to flying, wishing I could talk to just some of them.

The citation was not completely true, I didn't know who had written it up, and they were writing it up either from second-hand information or from their or another’s perspective. I guessed that it was close enough. There wasn't anything that I could do about it anyways. I had carried one of the men out and my crew chief the other. That part kind of pissed me off that they said it was done by someone else, but...I did have a real feeling of goose-bumpily pride, triumph, recognition, just like when I would hear a military band, or the Star Spangled Banner playing, or see Old Glory being saluted. I also felt EMBARRASSMENT. I had just been doing my job.

"Hey, so you really were there in Vietnam after all. I thought you were just pulling some sort of scam on us all."

"OK you fart heads, don't spoil my moment."

The lazy days of summer were upon us. The traffic of patients in and out of the hospital had not subsided any. In my six plus months in the hospital I had seen many come and go.

The fourth of July was approaching and when I thought about it, the parades, honor guards, military marching music, it made a chill run up and down my spine, I believed it always would. There was a fourth of July picnic that a number of us from the ward were going to. It was in a near by town's municipal park and it was being sponsored by the town's VFW Post. At least there was a minute segment of the United States population that was willing to recognize some of us on that day, amid the protests, which cluttered newscasts.

We boarded a bus near our ward. We were really a rag-tag looking group as we variously limped, hobbled, rolled, shuffled and so forth, out to our wheels. It took some little time for us all to get out and on to the bus and on our way. The bus driver was a jovial black man, a Spec Five, rather rotund.

When we finally arrived at the park, it was not close to what they had led us to believe, the pavilion that was there had been decorated with red, white and blue banners, streamers of red, white and blue crepe paper were draped everywhere. There were flags of all sizes; from small paper flags on tooth pick sized flag poles to large flags on the numerous flag poles in the park. It made me proud; for the second time that day, goose bumps ran up and down my spine and a tear welled up in the corner of my eye.

The VFW Auxiliary had planned well. There were tables that were chocked full of food and other goodies. The women waited on the men that were too incapacitated to go for their own food. BT, Jim and I were amazed at the quantity of food and the love that these people had put into the preparations, and were showing to us.

After the meal there were games, like bingo, complete with prizes. Beer, more snacks and more food were brought out. There were door prizes given away, numbers were drawn that coincided with tickets that had been given to all of the patients when they had arrived. Most of the prizes were substantial gifts; gifts worth receiving, not just, a cheap, something to give away to make somebody feel good.

Music filled the pavilion, they were mostly popular tunes interspersed with nationalistic melodies like America the Beautiful, and various service songs like The Caissons Go Rolling Along, stuff that really got the old blood pumping and goose bumps jumping.

Women kept bringing food and drink around to our tables in an unending procession, all afternoon. We had a most enjoyable time, even though it did get to be a bit tedious, wearing and boring after a time, a person can only eat and drink so much.

As the day drifted into late afternoon we were told to head back to the bus to make our journey back to Valley Forge General Hospital. We climbed back in the bus and tried to reclaim our seats. Most of the men were a few sheets to the wind by that time of day. I was in a seat beside BT. Jim was across the isle next to a window. A black fellow was sitting beside him holding onto a shoe shine box that he had won, a very nice but strange prize, he was obviously very drunk and was being totally obnoxious, due to the booze, I thought. As the bus pulled away from the park the black guy leaned over and rested his head on Jim's shoulder. The next thing we knew he was sound asleep. Jim said nothing for some time, or said nothing until the weight of the guy became uncomfortable. When he moved, to assume a better position, the black man swore at him and made some crude comments about Jim hating blacks.

"Heeeeh, ya whit ma'fuka. Why ya ma'fuk'in honkys all ya wana ma'fuk wit us, huh?. Lousee, whit ma'fuk, lit me slep, huh!, ma'fu..."

As he continued to curse Jim, he leaned back over and fell asleep on Jim's shoulder again. Jim sat patiently on the seat and allowed the GI to sleep for about fifteen minutes. The guy started to squirm and snuggle up to Jim in his sleep. Jim had enough. He pushed the guy away and told him to wake up and stop sleeping on his shoulder. The black fellow suddenly jumped up, and while cursing punched Jim in the face.

My War - Installment 48

2009-11-29T01:39:00.000-07:00

While I was still awake for this short time I caught a nurse coming onto the ward and asked her about some food. She checked my chart and said she would inquire further.

"At least let me have something to drink while I'm waiting."

"You can sip a little water, remember only a little. It's not uncommon to throw up for a while after general anesthesia."

"Byy-thee-waaay-wh-h-ere'ss Dooouugg Maa-arrrrooow?" half aware of my slurring all my speech.

"He went to surgery today also; he should be back this afternoon."

"Thaaann-kkkss Booonnnneeeee." I had just come to realize who it was that I was talking to.

She came back a few minutes later with a small Dixie cup of ice cream which I was to spoon in very slowly. It was definitely better than nothing, I thought, but did little to eliminate my intense hunger pangs.

My leg still throbbed, thank goodness my throbbing head had cleared somewhat. I would start receiving regular shots of morphine as soon as all the affects of the anesthesia were worn off. Up until this point in my life the strongest thing that I had ever had for pain was a couple of aspirin. Morphine would be a totally new experience for me. All I hoped for was that it would relieve the pain and discomfort of the surgery. I felt like sleeping, even though my stomach said stay awake and eat.

I understood that wanting to sleep was another of the after effects of the drug, sodium pentothal. Even with the pain in my leg it was all that I could do to hold my eyes open long enough to put a glass of ice water to my mouth and then back to the night stand. Looking hazily about I wondered how the cup of water had even gotten into my hand to start with. "Maybe it was the nurse...what was her nam......"

When I regained consciousness the next time I was more cognizant of my surroundings, like the wetness from some spilled water, and what I was doing. I still had an irresistible urge to sleep. I still had not gotten a shot of morphine and I really did not care just then. The only things on my mind were food and sleep. I dozed off again.

I was awakened at supper time by the efforts of one of the nurses, through cloudy; sleep filled eyes I made out the form of Louise gesticulating. She moved my bed table across me and cranked the bed into an upright position to facilitate my eating. I glanced over toward Doug's bed and saw that he was in it. He was having a bout with sleep just then because of his surgical experience.
&&& My intake of fluids had been limited since the night before and I did not seem to be able to keep awake long enough to get much more than a swallow or two of fluids down. I was becoming concerned about not having taken a leak. They kept a post operative record of fluid output; mine at that point stood at zero or very close to it. I had managed to eat most of my supper. It took me forever, before I succumbed to the onslaught of sleep for the nth time that day.

The next time that I woke up I felt like I had to relieve myself, really bad. I called for a urinal. A nurse brought one in, and then pulled the curtains around my bed to afford me some modicum of privacy. I tried and tried and tried, but I just could not, regardless of the urge, get a drop out. For a minute I thought maybe I could at least pee some dust. My mouth was still as dry as a bone and tasted like a herd of buffalo had stampeded through it, and had all taken a dump on the way.

I must have gone down for the count after supper. I slept, still influenced by the after effects of anesthesia. I woke up, in very early in the morning to pain, I had thought I had known pain, but up until that time I had not known the meaning of the word. I would never have thought that bone surgery could hurt so much. I was told later that orthopedic surgery is one of the most painful, I would have to agree.

I rang immediately for my first morphine shot, I needed some relief. As I waited I looked over to see how Doug was doing. He looked asleep, his leg propped up on a mountain of extra pillows. I tried to talk to him, but his ears were not hearing; he was dead to the world.

I was not groggy any more, and my pain made me even more awake and aware. I looked around the ward, while anxiously awaiting the morphine that would be coming and noticed some new faces, where only empty beds had been before I had gone to surgery. One of the new men was an EM (enlisted man). He was sitting on his bed wearing a fatigue shirt displaying his rank of PFC. There appeared to be nothing wrong with him, he was young and gave the appearance of being muscular and in good health. I figured that he must be in for something specific, and our ward was an orthopedic unit. I saw no sense in my being concerned about it. Another of the new faces nearby looked young also, he was still asleep. I guessed from the outline of his covers that he was missing at least a foot.

I continued to wait for my shot, wishing and hoping that the nurse would hurry up. I poured myself a cup of water and started to sip at it, still trying to alleviate some of the dryness in my mouth. Bonnie came with a hypodermic and asked me which side I wanted it in. "Side of what," I asked.

"Which side of your rump?"

"Take your pick."

The liquid from the syringe burned as she pushed the plunger injecting it into the large glut muscle. A slight lump puffed up on my butt after she withdrew the needle. She rubbed the lump with a cotton wad full of alcohol for a second or two and then told me to relax. I would be receiving shots every four hours henceforth.

It didn't take long for me to feel the effects of the morphine. My head felt funny and I began to feel nauseous. The pain in my ankle was still there which surprised me; I began to feel a bit drowsy. I had no intention of falling asleep and missing breakfast. In spite of my desire to stay awake I succumbed to the drug that burned in my rump and only came back to wakefulness at the sound of the food cart rattling onto the ward, even then it was as if I heard the cart from a great, hazy, distance.

The other men were up now and appeared to be glad to have breakfast on the ward, that is except for me and perhaps Doug, since he too had been a recent recipient of the surgeon's scalpel skills and assorted tools. I still had a queasy feeling in my stomach and the thought of food was just not sitting real well with me. Eating a mouthful of soap appealed to me about as much as breakfast did. Silly, how at that time I could still remember the taste of soap from discipline when I was a kid, caught saying something nasty.

I tried to eat a little of the breakfast food, it did absolutely nothing except increasing my feelings of nausea. I began to wonder about when I would be allowed to get out of bed. As long as I kept my leg propped up to keep it from swelling, I figured that I would be able to make good use of my wheelchair. That is as soon as I could get the OK from my doctors.

It was after lunch when I got the go ahead for the wheelchair, it surprised me in a way; and I was quite pleased with the prospect. Actually, the wheelchair was approved on condition that I would have to wait a day or two before using it. I missed the freedom that I had before the operation and wanted all the pain and confinement to be over with so that I could resume my activities.

It was sometime in the late afternoon or early evening when BT came by to say hello. He had one of the male nurses push him over to visit. By that time of the day I had been receiving shots of morphine, every four hours throughout the day, they had been alternated from cheek to cheek. A stupid thought ran through my mind; this must have been what prompted, "turn the other cheek."

BT was in good spirits and filled me in on what had been happening during my short absence. His New York friend was beginning to solidify her group's membership, for the hospital show that they were planning. BT had a fitting for his arm prosthesis during my absence, so he was quite excited about it. It was just great to see him and to know that he was gaining some confidence. To top it off, It had not been very many weeks before that he had been totally down and closed to being out in public.

Jim turned up while BT was still there and we had a good time visiting. BT and I both simultaneously suggested that we take Jim with us to the club as soon as I was off the heavy duty drugs and able to travel. Jim thought the idea was great. As we sat and talked, Ralph, one of the nurses, stopped by to visit. He told us of a Captain he had heard about that was on the Psych Ward, a building located on the south end of the hospital grounds, in a separate building. This Captain sincerely thought that he was a tank and was continually asking staff members on the ward to bring him motor oil to drink. We all got a laugh from Ralph's story even though we knew it was not a laughing matter. We kicked it around a little; maybe it was a laughing matter, for us, not for anybody else, not for civilians or even other military just us dyed in the wool patients.

The next afternoon I got my wheels back and rolled over to visit with Doug. He having had surgery the same day as I, felt similar, but had no desire to try a wheelchair at that time.

"Does the morphine do anything to you, or for you Doug?"

"Sure does. What do you mean? It takes the pain away, is that what you’re talking about?"

"Not exactly, it doesn't really take my pain away. It makes me feel half sick in the stomach. To top it off, my ass feels like a pin cushion."

"That I'll agree with, maybe I'm fortunate, I've had no ill side effects."

"I'm probably the odd-ball. I have a very high tolerance to the effect of drugs. Bill, the anesthesiologist told me it took a lot of sodium pentothal to put me under."

"That must be the problem, the shots you get may not be enough to give you relief, just enough to make you feel like crap."

I decided that I would mention it to the doctors. I was not sure what good it would do, I would have to wait and see.

Since I was able to and allowed to get out of bed I would start using the bathroom again. It is very easy to forget, when one is able to, how nice some of life's little conveniences are. I was very lucky; there were wards full of people, on the second floors of the ward buildings that would never use a restroom or bathroom in a normal way again. Some of those that would be able to move around, in wheelchairs, would only be able use bathrooms to dump urine or ostomy bags. A great number of those men, the paraplegics and quadriplegics, felt the same way that I did. They felt that they had gone to fight for their country and they had done it proudly. There were regrets, there always is. Just like there are regrets by people who are paralyzed in motorcycle accidents, or any other type of accident. We mostly had regrets mostly for our condition, not for having gone to fight for our country or for having ridden the motorcycle or what ever.

After the operation I had not given much thought to using self hypnosis, I thought that I would see if I could relieve my discomfort by practicing it again. I wheeled back to my bed, crawled up and made myself comfortable. I began my, self designed, process of putting myself into a hypnotic sleep. I found it very hard to maintain an adequate level of concentration. It probably would have been better if I had the foresight to prepare myself, in advance of my operation, for some pain relief. I was able to enter a light hypnotic state and begin to relax more and more. I finally forced myself into natural sleep.

The next few days were similar, the medication did not so much as touch the pain, it did manage to make me feel crappy. I was receiving as much morphine as the doctors considered safe for a person of my size and body weight, so I could not verify Doug's hypothesis. The pain was manageable, meaning that I could live with it. So I started going to the mess hall with some of the other men, it was nice to get out again.

Time seemed to move more slowly during that period of my life, while on medication. There were days when I would wake up, eat and them hypnotize myself and just lay there in a half sleep, half trance, self hypnotic state for hours. It was those periods of hypnosis which seemed to be most enjoyable of all.

I was finally taken off of my injected medication; I had gone from morphine to Percodan a small pill one step down form morphine. They seemed to help me more than the morphine, but they didn't last very long at all. When the Percodan were brought to us they were handed to us in little paper cups, the nurse would keep a close eye on the little pill, making sure it was taken before she would leave. Doug and I figured that if one pill was good for pain, then two would be great, giving twice the time of total relief from the pain. Plans were laid, we would fake taking the pills and save up a couple to take at the same time.

We practiced faking pill swallowing until we felt we had it down pat. We wanted to be convincing. I saved one and then took it along with my next one. It was not all that bad waiting out the extra four hours without a pill, because I figured that the next four hours would go floating by.

Doug, unknown to me, kept saving pills all day long and after supper that night took three or four of the tablets all at one time. Within twenty minutes he was vomiting his guts out because of it. I made up my mind after seeing his reaction to stick to one pill at a time.

During my time in Vietnam I had never come in contact with drugs or drug users. I’m convinced that I was fortunate, not that I ever considered using them. Flying was my drug, the most important thing to me, drugs and flying just flatly didn't mix in my book. Our CO's were the good old gung-ho types. We knew there were drugs in Vietnam, but not in our unit. In the hospital, among the enlisted men, I was becoming more aware that there was a military drug culture.

After the Watson-Jones operation I had been off of morphine for three or four days, still practicing my self hypnosis at least once a day for a few hours. I awakened from a trance one afternoon and lay in bed stretching while coming fully to a conscious condition. A fellow, from across the ward, an EM, walked up and pointedly asked me what I was on.

"What am I on, I responded?"

"Yea, man, I've been watching you, man....and you’re on something. Whoa, right here in broad daylight, yea man you’re on something. You’re all right for an officer. You wanna join us out on the parkin' lot sometime and hit on some good stuff with us?"

"Hit with you!?"

"Yea, man, do some dope."

"I'm not on anything, but self hypnosis and I suggest that you cut the drug crap. I'll report you. You got that, man?"

He took off with out a word. He wasn't the only person to ask me what I was on. I explained how I felt about drugs and why I did not use them. One main reason being my religious belief:
1 Corinthians 3:16 "Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? (17) If any man defile the temple of God,...."

It was also against the law. I controlled my self hypnosis; it was totally safe and natural without worry of side or after effects. I was not about to jeopardize my military career by considering drug use, other than what the doctors prescribed. Doug's popping the Percodan convinced me and reinforced my opinion.

The weeks passed as I began and continued to use hypnosis to, hopefully, heal my ankle faster. I increasingly spent time doing isometric contractions inside the cast to keep the muscles in shape. We had taken up frequenting the "O" Club a few times a week, along with playing cards, shooting "8" Ball, going to the library.

BT had finally been fitted for his leg prosthetic device and he had his new electric wheelchair, which was a pretty snappy number. He would be up and beginning to learn to walk before much longer.

I was anxious to get out of my new waking cast and get my built up shoe and brace. I noticed when I got my new walking cast and started walking, that since the ankle was stable in the cast my left knee was beginning to do strange things; strange like bending back too far and wobbling from side to side. I noticed the side to side movement because the walking pad, on the bottom of the cast, was sort of rounded and caused lateral stress on the knee. I mentioned it to the doctors and they examined my left knee and compared it to my right. Their examination indicated that there had been severe ligamental damage to the left knee and moderate damage to the right knee. Great, I thought. What else was falling apart on me? There was nothing to be done. Not until the cast on the lower left leg came off. So, I would just have to put up with it all.

I got to know some of the other men on the ward during that time after my, Watson-Jones, surgery. There was Davy a skinny fellow who had a hip disarticulation, that being where the entire leg, including the hip joint, had been removed. He had his prosthetic leg and could use it pretty well. He liked to tell a story about going out to a bar with his girl. He had been sitting at the bar and when another girl approached the bar, he acting the gentleman, got down from his stool and stood beside his girl. The new woman moved the stool and sat the leg of the stool on top of Davy's false foot. She plunked down. Being half drunk she did not realize immediately that her stool was tilted until some time had passed. It certainly was no bother him, so he did not say a word. Eventually she noticed, recognizing that it had been that way for some time. Embarrassed she jumped down apologizing profusely. He thought it was pretty funny, he got the stool back too. Davy was a likable guy, easy to get along with. His small features seemed even smaller with is tussled light brown hair getting longer. He often joined us for a game of cards.

The young healthy looking fellow on the opposite side of the ward went off to surgery one morning and came back later in the day minus his whole left arm up to and including the shoulder joint. I was and had been, curious about what was wrong with him. I never found out. He was soon gone from the ward.

My War - Installment 47

2009-11-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

"Does that hurt when I do that?" Jim Sargent asked, as he forced the foot forward while holding my leg tightly with his other hand.

"Of course it hurts. It would hurt your leg if I did that to you that hard."

"Does it hurt when you walk on it?"

"Right again Doc."

"We'll get some X-rays of the ankle and then do an intensifier study (Moving X-ray pictures) to verify what I believe to be wrong. You probably tore all of the ligaments in your ankle when you crashed, Sam."

"What are the prospects; what can be done with it?"

"With ligament damage, the sooner it's repaired the better the chances are for a good repair. But generally speaking, depending on the extent of the damage, we would more than likely choose a static repair using a tendon. The repair we would do is called a Watson-Jones procedure. We won't speculate any further, not until we see the films and do the study. OK?"

"In the interim let's measure his legs Jim. He could get a built up shoe and a short leg brace to help stabilize the joint until we decide what we are going to do."

"I believe your right, Rick."

I was given an order slip for the X-ray department and one for prosthetic services so that I could be fitted for a brace. One of the doctors would meet me at the X-ray department at about 1400 hours. I would have plenty of time to eat and get fitted before heading off to get my pictures taken.

The suspicions of the doctors were confirmed by the films and I would be scheduled for a Watson-Jones procedure. Rick explained the procedure in more detail. They would make an incision of approximately thirteen inches on the outside of the leg, open it up and drill a hole through the neck of the fibula, take a piece of tendon, he didn't say where from, insert the tendon through the hole and pull it across tightly and fasten it. Then sew it up, cast it and wait eight to ten weeks to see if all had gone well.

It would be a few days until my brace would be ready so I would have to continue to lay off my game of golf until I could get the added support of the brace.

There were some new patients that had come in, including another warrant officer pilot. I told myself that I would have to make it a point to go and meet him later on.

SECOND AID

I volunteered to help on the ward with changing dressings on wounds and other tasks. I had wanted to go into medicine earlier in my life and still courted the idea. I had started my rounds, changing dressings on some of the guys that I knew, Rick, one of the orthopedic surgeon was checking some of the new patients that had come in that morning. One particular patient had some very nasty wounds that had been packed in Vietnam before he was shipped home. The term packed refers to the physical wound being filled or packed with a material, medicated usually. The wounds had festered and were full of pus and dead flesh and stunk terribly, so bad in fact, that Rick could simply not stomach working on them. I was asked if I could help.

"If you can stand it, go ahead and unpack the wounds, then silver nitrate all the dead flesh and redress them. OK?"

"You got it Rick."

The worst damage was one spot on the left thigh of the man's amputated leg. It was a white phosphorous burn, about as big around as a coffee cup and had actually burned down to the bone. I had smelled various forms of rotten flesh of animals during my life, but none of them comes close to the putrid smell of rotten human flesh at point blank range. I had smelled it at a distance a number of times in Vietnam, but those times had only hinted at the overwhelming stench. I wondered if man's omnivorous habits and junk food had anything to do with the way that he smelled in death.

I removed the packing using large forceps, the hole seemed enormous. There were yards and yards and yards of packing material to be removed. The amount of dead flesh was so great that I had to scrape some of it out before I could cauterize it with the silver nitrate. It was not painful for the patient because there is no feeling in the dead flesh, but I am sure that the patient didn't much care for the smell any more than we did. Fortunately his stump was healing well.

There were others that had come in that day that I worked on. There was one guy with a large wound that was full of maggots. I asked what the doctor wanted me to do. He told me the maggots did no harm, they would only eat the dead meat and it would not hurt anything to leave them in awhile. He told me that I better clean them out though and cauterize it, it would make a better appearance if anybody came through the ward to visit, anybody like media people, or parents, or spouses, or Congressmen.

It was a very interesting morning with all the new patients. Rick had gained a new respect for me that morning, we would become good friends. I was glad to get the work done so that I could slip into some serious goofing off. I met Jim; he had been to the swimming pool. We talked for a few minutes and decided to try the mind reading bit on BT. We had not had a chance to try it out on anyone like we had originally planned. Jim went to his bed and took a fresh packet of playing cards from his night table while I waited in BT's room setting him up for our trick.

"Hey, BT, Jim's been telling me that he's got some ESP type abilities. He says that he has been practicing on developing his abilities or gift, what ever he called it, since he came to the hospital."

"So what does he want us to do?"

"He wants us to help him verify the Extra Sensory Perception. He thought that he could try reading cards and he wants us to help him in some way. He should be here any moment."

Jim showed up as if on cue. We ran the trick with its signals about fifteen times, not missing once.

"That's really something. Wow. Hand me my smokes, please. Could you do that a few more times?"

"Sure."

I played along pretending only to help concentrate on the selected card after Jim would return to the room. We were very convincing. I would show as much amazement as BT.

We couldn't keep the secret from BT, it had gone so well. He had bought our act so completely it amazed us. We felt we had to include him and have him play along with us the next time we would play our trick.

BT had been impressed during our performance and had continually expressed his amazement as Jim got card, after card correct. Of course Jim had been convincing in his part of the performance. He would enter, catch my first signal, close his eyes in pretended concentration, sometimes grabbing his forehead and massaging it, he would say something like: I'm beginning to see a color, the suit is a red one....ah.. It’s taking shape, it....it is a heart. He would then seem to concentrate harder for a moment, then relax for a moment, while continuing his talking. He would then sometimes open his eyes briefly, to peek between barely cracked eyelids, catching the next signal, then he would seem to slowly return to a state of rapt contemplation and begin another spiel leading up to the correct value of the already suited card.

When we told BT that it was all fake, he didn't believe us at first. We had to go into a short description of what we were doing and how we were doing it. He was still impressed, but was also a bit pissed that he had been so easily fooled. He did get interested and offered to go along with us on pulling the same type of trick on others.

With my newly gained mobility I went home for another weekend and visited my parents and Emily and some other friends from my high school days. The truth was coming out about Emily. I was being used to try and make another guy that I knew jealous. I suppose that our relationship or supposed relationship had lasted longer than expected, because it was not as effective with my being absence from the area. I was not around to be perceived as a direct threat. I had been as convenient as the mail until I was close enough and able enough to be present on weekends and so it ended. It all made more sense to me when it was over, the rumors of our alleged engagement and so on.

Most of the people that I had gone to school with were away at college or some other type of schooling, so it was only by chance that I saw some people that I knew who were attending a local community college or working. Not everyone went to college, I did have company.

The really funny thing was that I barely knew these girls when I was in school. One had graduated the year before me and one with my class. They were next door neighbors. The one girl had always acted kind of stuck up toward me when I was in school, so I was surprised when she was so friendly. They invited me to come by and visit the next time I got home.

I had called a friend of mine that I had kind of grown up with. There were four boys in his family, their ages did not exactly coincide with either my brother's age or mine, but we knew them all and I used to do a lot of camping and things with the fellow nearest my age. I lived next to a big graveyard, on one side and a stretch of woods behind us. We used to sleep outside all summer long, sometimes in the cemetery next to a large mausoleum and very often in my tree house.

We talked for a while on the phone remembering things from our past. Things like my Dad making me tear down my tree house the summer before I went into the service and how we use to barbecue on its front porch. Doug was still dating the same girl. She had graduated the year after me and he graduated the year after her. Doug and I made plans to go on a double date. He told me that Sue could fix me up with a blind date. I told him fine, but I secretly had reservations, remembering the fiasco in Denton, Texas. I told him that I would call him before coming home the next time. I didn't know when that would be because of the pending surgery.

After going to church that Sunday and then, eating one of Mom's good Sunday dinners, I returned to the hospital. Upon returning to the ward I was informed that surgery had been scheduled for my Watson-Jones procedure for early the next morning. It had been almost five months to the day since being shot down, I was making progress. Maybe it wouldn't be too much longer before I could get back to flying. I would even have to wait on my brace.

A group of us got together and decided to go to the club for supper that evening. I figured it would be a while before I would be able to get back there for another meal. The new pilot on the block came with us, his name was Marty. He was from Cold Springs Harbor, Long Island, New York and had an arm injury. He was close to my age, only being a year older.

We showed Marty around and introduced him to everyone we knew, at the club. I felt like a man eating his last meal before going before the firing squad. I was not actually, exactly scared of having the operation, it was a feeling akin to the nervousness I had when I first got to my unit in Vietnam. Nervousness derived from...a...a lack of understanding, of doing or being involved in something that....that was new, something that I had never done before.

We returned to the ward, late again, and I quickly fell asleep in spite of my nervousness. I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly awakened by some person prowling through the darkened room and moving straight for my bed. My eyes were heavy with sleep and the a few drinks I had at the club. I watched as the shadowy figure came closer. I had acquired, in Vietnam, the ability to sleep through explosions and artillery pieces going off, and sending rounds out from our compound, but I had also gained a sense where I could be awakened by the slightest noise that was unnatural to my situation...any noise that was out of place would wake me up.

In my sleepy, semi-awake, state I had temporarily forgotten where I was at. I waited silently watching the figure get closer and closer. I was awake by then and knew where I was, so I just lay there waiting to see who it was. A flash light clicked on and was pointed at my face.

"Mr. Rollason, wake up," the voice said while shaking my arm.

"Yes, what is it that you want?"

"It's time for you to take a sleeping pill."

"Time for my sleeping pill, what for? You just came in here and woke me up from a sound sleep to give me a sleeping pill?"

"Yes, that's the rule. The night before someone goes to surgery they have to take a sleeping pill. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. Remember, nothing further by mouth either, no water or anything. OK?"

"OK. What time is it anyway?"

"Twelve twenty."

"Great, is this pill guaranteed to put me back to sleep quickly?"

"That, I don't know."

I remained awake for what must have been hours before I dozed off again. It seemed as if no time at all had passed from the time I fell asleep to when I was awakened at 0530 hours, to receive two shots before going to the OR at 0600.

Two people came by and transferred me to a gurney for my short ride to the OR. Only about twenty minutes had passed since I had received the shots, but my mouth was dry and pasty and I felt slightly groggy.

I was wheeled into the OR and conveyed onto the waiting operating table. My heart thumped in my chest as I gazed around at the lights and all the equipment placed around me. Arm boards were attached to the table, my arms were taped down and IVs were hooked up to my arms. My leg had been prepped the day before, Sunday afternoon, after my return. The hair had been shaved off from my knee down to my toes.

The anesthesiologist was introduced to me; his name was Bill, a captain. I remembered looking up at his upside down face as he bent forward over my head. Ringlets of wavy black hair protruded from under his sterile cap, only his eyes were actually visible above his mask. He began to explained what he had done so far, and what he was about to do.

The last thing I remembered was his asking me to count backward from one hundred as he injected sodium pentothal into the IV tube. The operating room was alive with people, doctors, nurses, and others. I could hear all their voices as I drifted into my drug induced sleep.

As I began to awaken in the recovery room, I felt as if I were returning from the dead, maybe I was, I had heard of numerous accounts of guys dying in the OR and being revived. My mouth was very dry, my throat hurt from tubes that had been inserted. My head throbbed as if I'd been on a binge. I was hungry beyond measure and the stupid joke about dreaming about eating a ten pound marshmallow and waking up to find the pillow gone, crazily ran through my mind. As I drifted in and out of wakefulness the thought of eating made me nauseous. And then there was my leg. The cast went from just below my knee down and it felt as if it were a shoe that was four or five sizes too small and laced up as tightly as possible.

I felt a little better as time passed and soon there after my gurney was pushed back to ward 3AB. I was placed in a bed on the opposite wing from where I had been. I kept going from short periods of awareness to complete confusion, or sleep. I smelled vomit and figured that I must have puked all over myself a few times in the recovery room, somewhere, although I had no recollection of doing it what so ever. I was ravenously hungry again and I looked about for some staff member, to ask if I could have something to eat. I noticed that Doug's bed was just diagonally across from mine, but he was no where to be found.

My War - Installment 46

2009-11-26T20:12:00.002-07:00

My leg was healing rapidly and I, remarkably, would be getting out of my body cast. The thought of not having to drag around all of the extra weight, being able to bend and sit properly at a table, being able to eat without having to scrape food off of my, shirt covered, cast were heavenly. I would have to use either crutches or a wheelchair, and would gradually be able to start putting weight on my left leg. I was not to put weight on the leg at all until I had been to physical therapy for a few days. That was fine with me I could hardly wait.

As soon as I had been told that I would be getting out of the cast, I ran, so to speak, to make plans with BT to go to the "O" Club to celebrate. He still had not received his electric wheelchair, so we would have to find at least one more guy to go along with us to push BT.

During those past weeks I had met Ralph a young Warrant Officer pilot and the Silver Fox (John), a captain in infantry. He was called the Silver Fox because, even though he was only in his late twenties or early thirties his whole head was covered with silver gray hair. Both of these men said they would go with us. They were both friendly, Ralph had an arm and hand injury, John had a leg injury that was being worked on and had been worked on for some time. Ralph was about five feet eight or nine inches tall had light brown hair, angular facial features and a friendly manner. He had been a Lift pilot in Vietnam.

The Silver Fox always seemed to be smiling and had very prominent dimples that emphasized his smile and attracted women, he said. He also had a reputation for having his way with them.

Speaking of women, we had some pretty fine looking nurses on our ward and we asked a couple of them if they would care to join us for dinner. Bonnie was a real fox, young, strawberry-blond, and put together. She declined because she had a date with a Lieutenant, which I had come to know a few weeks earlier. Jeff was his name; he had lost an arm, below the elbow. Jane, another real looker, had short coal black hair cut in a pixie style, a petite frame, beautiful eyes, smile, and legs and on and on, very desirable. I asked her, but she declined on the basis that she was committed elsewhere, a disappointment to all of us. The other nurses were either too old to consider, or were real bow wows, so we gave up on the idea of any female companionship for our meal that evening at the club.

I went to the cast room in mid afternoon the body cast was removed to my great relief. I had been doing isometric contraction exercises while in the plaster. Unbelievably, they had worked, so there had been very little deterioration of the muscles; almost no atrophy at all. As soon as I got into the wheelchair, I made a bee-line for the bathroom. For the first time in over four months a real bath was just moments away. Come to think of it that was the first real bath I'd had since before I had gone to Viet Nam. The first thing or one of the first things that I noticed was that my back still bothered me. It hurt when I bent over to ease myself down into the tub. Later it hurt as I stood on one leg and bent over the sink to brush my teeth, another first in months. Even brushing my teeth and being able to spit into a sink, rather than an emesis basin was a wondrous treat. Things were going well though, I had not been able to stand and bend over anything, for a great number of months, that part was great. But the sharp stabbing pain when I did bend over was causing me to hold tightly onto the sink every time I did. I would continue mentioning it to the doctors for months to come. In my mind I believed that I would be out of the hospital in no time and back to my love, flying. The way things were heating up in the Middle East some of us had started to speculate that it would be the next place we would be going, that is, after the hospital. Some of the men kidded me about doing recons over the sand dunes in the desert.

After bathing I put on some civilian clothes and then got back into my wheelchair to go to orthopedic services for my crutches. It felt really great, having the freedom of the wheelchair and being able to sit upright and everything. It was just overwhelming regaining that much freedom and mobility. I got my crutches and quickly took them back to my bed where I dropped them off. I felt that I would be too tempted to put some weight on my leg if I used them, exclusively, that soon after getting my cast off. I did not want that kind of temptation. That would have been almost like putting me in a room full of naked women, with me wearing a straight jacket.

I zoomed up through the ward, dodging around chairs and tables and people, throwing an occasional wave at friends as I passed along. When I arrived at BT's there was another guy there before me, he too was in a wheelchair. I didn't recognize him at first. It was Doug Marrow, another first lieutenant from across the hall. I had met him previously. He was a husky fellow, married, from upstate New York. He had an ankle that had been seriously injured and the doctors were planning to fuse the ankle to regain a stable platform for Doug to walk on. He and BT had been talking when I entered.

BT noticed me and said, "Hello Sam. Free of the white stuff I see."

"Yes. It's great."

"You know Doug, don't you?"

"Yes. We met last week I believe. How's it going Doug? When are you scheduled to go under the knife for that fusion you told me about?"

"Within a week or two, they told me. I can't, for the life of me, figure out what the hold up is. In the mean time I'm just swimming and going to P.T. and goofing off."

"Swimming eh? I'd like to go with you next time. You can show me around, if you don't mind?

"No. I'd be happy to show you the pool area."

"Hey. You should go with us BT, your stumps will never toughen up with all the pussy foot'in around that your doing."

"Have you been talking to the doctors about me, their saying the same things that you are."

"Up yours BT! I haven't been talking to anyone about you. I just believe that it's a good idea to get out of bed as soon as possible, especially when it's OK with the medicos."

"You'll be getting out of here before too long, by the looks of it." Doug had changed the subject.

I hope so Doug. I'd like to get back to doing some flying, even if it is back across the big pond. By the way would you be interested in joining us for dinner this evening?"

"Sure. I don't see any problem with that."

"There is sure to be a high time at the "O" Club tonight."

"All we need now is one more guy to go along with us and push me then we'll be set," said BT.

"I'll check with Hank and Ben to see if either of them would be interested. Can you think of anybody else to check with Doug?"

"Doug is married, but we could try the nurses again Sam," croaked BT.

"Hey you two, I hear tell that some of the Red Cross girls aren't bad at all."

"That'd be fine, but I don't know any of them, how about you BT?"

"Me! Shit! I haven't been out of this ward since you took me to the club. I've hardly even been out of this room."

"Let's just look for another guy to help us out."

The Silver Fox went with us and pushed BT. We had a great time, along with a good meal. After we had finished eating we wheeled over to the bar area and watched the able bodied patrons dancing and carrying on. The Silver Fox knew most of the people, both male and female, from Al the bar tender to Zelda, one of the full time Red Cross workers stationed at the hospital. He joined in the dancing, slow dancing that is, and would bring girls over to meet us, which was good for our egos. It did us some real good to meet some of the girls. Linda, Mary Ann, Nonie, and Zelda were the Red Cross girls, we met them only briefly, then they rejoined the others in the dancing.

We met a few other girls, nurses, most of them I had at least seen before, either on or around our ward. Louise, a husky woman, probably in her mid to late twenties with short black hair and lips colored dark red. Jane whom I had asked to dinner before was there. Bonnie was there with Jeff. Ralph a male nurse from our ward was there with his roommate, another male nurse named John. They were mixing in with the others around the bar area.

Throughout the evening different people would pass by our table and visit for a while between dances, or stop by to have a drink with us before rejoining the others. We would joke around and talk for a time. We all started to get to know the RC (Red Cross) girls and the hospital personnel on a personal and social level, rather than just from a patient hospital staff relationship. It was quite refreshing.

I enjoyed being in my wheelchair, being able to move right up to the table like a normal civilized human. I learned that evening that BT would be getting fitted for his prosthetic arm in the morning and would soon have it to wear. He had been lucky in a way that his arm loss was below the elbow. His leg loss, on the other hand was an AK, above the knee, which was not the best, but then it wasn't the worst either, like a hip disarticulation (the total removal of the leg, including the hip joint).

We returned to the ward late that evening, which was becoming more and more of a habit with us. My biggest problem was maneuvering through the darkened ward to my bed after helping BT into his. There were definite advantages to having a private room. I told myself that I'd have to get on the waiting list for a room if I was going to spend much more time there.

The next morning Jim and I got together and talked, he had come up with, what I can only refer to as an act, a mind reading act, which he and I would perpetrate on otherwise unsuspecting fellow patients and staff members.

The mind reading scheme would use regular playing cards as a medium of convenience. The idea was: Someone, anyone, could choose any card from the deck, show it to someone else in the room for conformation, replace the card in the stack, shuffle the cards and then concentrate on the chosen card. All this would be done while Jim was out of the room. Jim would then be summoned and would stand in front of the person and concentrate. He would then proceed to, successfully, call out the chosen card. Later on Jim would even go as far as to fashion a turban for himself out of a hospital bath towel.

The way the act really worked was rather simple. When Jim would or rather as soon as… even better… while he was reentering the room, I would give him a signal for the suit of the card. There were only four signals; all were taken from natural personal movements that I normally exhibited. We worked these out together, beforehand of course. If I was scratching my earlobe, either one, it was a spade, wiping my forehead a heart, stroking my mustache a club, and scratching my chin a diamond. All of these movements were done in a most casual and natural manner and were the first thing Jim would look for when the door was opened, and while everyone's attention would be naturally drawn to his entry.

The next set of signals was again simple placements of the hands, which could easily be picked up in Jim's peripheral vision. With practice, people even trying to deliberately catch us were foiled in their attempts.

Jim, Doug and I went to the swimming pool for some exercise and while Doug was stroking around the pool, Jim and I decided to get a little more practice in, so that we would be able to try our mind reading act out on Doug and BT, later that day.

It was mid morning when I left the others at the pool to go to PT, (physical therapy). I hoped that I would be able, for the first time in a long, long time, to actually put weight on my leg without the use of any, extra, external support. At the direction of the Physical Therapist, I wheeled my chair up to the parallel walking bars and stood on my right leg. I grasp the wooden bars and moved my left leg forward in what was to be my first step. I gritted my teeth apprehensively, then eased the weight of my body down slowly onto the foot and started to walk in as normal a manner as possible, to the end of the rails. It went well; I only seemed to notice two small problems. The first being I was limping as if my left leg was shorter than the right. Second, when I would step forward with my weight on the left foot, the leg bones of the lower leg, the tibia and fibula would slide to the rear of the ankle joint about an inch to perhaps twice that. It was really weird and to top it off it hurt. It almost seemed to me as if the only thing holding the foot on was muscle and skin.

The PT people noticed my limp and measured my legs. I had lost over an inch in the length of my left one. As far as the foot problem, they agreed that something was wrong, but I would have to mention it to my doctors sometime, when they were making their rounds. I was also told to mention the shortness in the left leg.

I would probably end up with a built up shoe for my left foot, nothing that unusual about that. It made me think about another friend of mine a few beds away on the ward, within the same cubicle. Eddie was a black fellow, really good natured, always smiling, and balding slightly. We played cards together pretty often. Eddie had lost about six to seven inches of the femur of his right leg. He had a shoe with a sole of six to seven inches thick, to compensate for his loss, a real bummer. He was happy to be able to walk though, a lesson to be learned by me. Eddie and the doctors were discussing what would be best for him: to keep the huge built up shoe for life, or to amputate the right foot and make up the total loss with a prosthetic device. Eddie's right knee would always be six to seven inches above his left knee, but with the prosthesis he would appear more normal and it would be easier for him to control than the heavy built up shoe. The final decisions were Eddie's and Eddie's alone.

A few days later I sat on my bed waiting for the doctors to make their rounds. I had been practicing walking and even while using crutches the bones slide to the rear of my foot. I was ready and waiting when the doctors arrived.

I told them of my discovery and was asked to demonstrate the laxity, by walking, so that they could observe. I walked a short distance and was then told to lie down on the bed. One of the doctors examined the ankle and foot and discovered that he could easily move it every which way he desired.

My War - Installment 45

2009-11-16T17:34:00.002-07:00

BT was beginning to come alive, entering more and more into the conversation and even beginning to get interested enough to ask questions and joke around.

I had not been paying very much attention to my hair, I shaved each morning in bed using a small mirror, and ran a comb through my hair, but I had not actually looked at it. I had only had one hair cut, in bed in Japan, and a trim, also in bed, since I had left Vietnam. My mustache was nice and full, I did keep it trimmed neatly. Anyway, my hair must have been fairly long by military standards. BT started talking.

"You know, Sam. When I first met you I thought you were some college protest leader that got pounced on by the National Guard and were just brought here for care, to keep you out of the way for awhile. And now I hear that you were a recon pilot. Tell me how you got yourself screwed up and brought here to Valley Forge."

"Sure BT."

We had stayed talking to BT for hours and when we left that afternoon it looked like BT was really coming out of the shell that he had built around himself. He had even asked Jim how to go about getting a wheelchair. We told him that we would try and run down one of the ortho docs and get him to sign BT up for a wheelchair. It had turned out to be a really great day for all of us. Jim and I had just as good a time with BT as he had with us.

Mom came down that Friday and brought me some pants and a shirt. I put them on with much effort, picked my cane up from my bed, signed out from the ward, and we headed out to the car.

I opened the front passenger door of the car and tried to get in, unfortunately with the seat in the far forward position, to accommodate Mom's short legs, there was no way for me to get in. The back seat also proved just as impossible and frustrating regardless of the position that I tried. Finally, after thinking for a short time, I told Mom to move the front seat all the way to the rear position because I was going to drive us home. I moved around to the driver's side of the car and eased myself in, angled down across the back of the seat I planted my plaster-clad left foot on the floor, it's fortunate that the car was an automatic. I reached out for my cane and placed it on the seat beside me, started the car, pulled the shift lever to the drive position and we were off for home.

The ninety mile drive home seemed to take forever, stuck in that sloping posture, not being able to move, but then it did feel good to be driving. The weekend passed quickly. I always enjoyed Mom's home cooking. Dad and I took a ride out to some property that he had given to my brother and showed me where they were going to build his house. I had taken my new camera along and used the self timer to get a picture of the two of us. With the cast on, increasing my height by several inches, I was finally as tall as, or taller than Dad. I went to church Sunday morning and it was good to see everyone that I had not seen in quite some time.

My folks let me drive the car back to the hospital. I decided that I would have to buy a car before too long so that I would have a way to get home without someone having to come and get me. I did figure that it was far too complicated, and a great deal of trouble and discomfort to leave the hospital as long as I had the body cast on. With any luck and as fast as I seemed to be healing, I didn't believe that I would be in the cast for very much longer anyway.

Sunday evening I met a few more of the officers that were on the adjacent ward from mine and we spent the evening becoming acquainted. On the way back to my place I stopped and visited with BT. One of the guys I had met was totally intrigued with the idea of golfing and I asked him to join Jim and me in our planned trek to the golf course the next morning. The fellow's name was Hank, a first lieutenant with a rosy cheeks, fair complexion and very little facial hair. His head was covered with dark wavy hair which emphasized his smooth face and narrow features. We made plans to meet the next morning, after breakfast and mosey on over to the hospital's nine hole golf course.

Monday morning came swiftly and I greeted the morning with enthusiasm, eager to try golfing for the first time in my life. In the past I had viewed golf as a rather silly practice. Clubbing a little white ball and then chasing it about a great expanse of grass and greenery. I was soon to grow fond of a game which takes a great deal of patience, practice, and coordination. My misunderstanding was typical of anything which is unknown.

We stumbled up to the clubhouse and each of us signed for a set of clubs consisting of a one wood, a putter, a two, five, seven, and nine irons, all in a Sunday golf bag. I was very happy to find out that Hank had played for a number of years and was quite willing to give Jim and I lessons and pointers during our play. Hank had briefly described each of the clubs and their use and how to swing them, for which we were glad. I had to make some modifications due to my inflexibility, but things went well. Without being able to bend or twist my back I started my first game of golf hitting the ball straight, later when my back was freed from plaster, I unfortunately, learned to hook and slice.

After nine holes, with an astronomically high score, I was plumb tuckered out from dragging around my body cast. Jim was tired too, he had only been out of his cast a few days and his leg was pretty weak. It felt exceptionally good to make it back to the ward and rest up for a little while, my bed felt like heaven.

After I had rested for some time I went to visit with BT .Hank and I had discussed the idea of going to the Officers Club for supper and having a few drinks afterwards. I wanted to see if I could persuade BT to go with us. I had some reservations about it because I couldn't sit at a table very well but...

BT still didn't have a wheelchair, although he did tell me, with great excitement, that he was going to be getting one of the new electric units, which could be controlled with one hand or one finger for that matter.

"BT, how about going to the "O" Club with us for supper tonight?"

"How am I supposed to get there? Walk?"

"Not just yet. I've got a wheelchair lined up for you and I'm going to push your funky butt over there myself."

"Sure, you’re going to push me. Huh?"

"You bet your sweet ass, and....if I want any shit out of you I'll squeeze your head. You got that, Sir?"

"OK. So I'll go."

"Hey. Let's get this straight. I'm not saying that I'm going to treat you to supper; I'm just going to push you over there. OK?"

"All right."

BT and I chatted for a while. He was from New York and knew some girls that were in show business. One had been in an off Broadway production of Neil Simon's Star Spangled Girl. He showed me a picture of her, which made me drool all over his bed spread. She was a real knockout, to say the least. Perfect figure, long golden hair which surrounded and absolutely angelic face, I couldn't wait to meet her and anybody she knew.

Well, this gorgeous hunk of woman flesh and some of her friends had the idea of putting on a show for the boys at the hospital. It sounded too good to be true, it sounded terrific to me. I told BT that I'd love to meet Lynn in person.

"Do you know any of her friends, any single, good looking girls among them?"

"Yes and yes, but what about that girl, Emily, that you're sweet on?"

"Her? It doesn't feel right--I don't believe its going to last for very long or whether it ever actually began. I'm not sure why, but a little time is going to reveal any weakness and I believe a very short time will show me she's not really interested in me. I talked to one of her teachers, an old friend of mine, and he told me she has been telling everybody that she and I are getting married; this is news to me. He may not be too reliable; he also told me that everybody had heard that I was dead. All of what he said was news to me."

"That sounds like some pretty serious distortion of facts!"

"It’s serious to her only, and for her reasons. She's a good looking girl and all, but I can't help feeling that I'm being used for some specific purpose, the heck with it. So let's get your skinny, funky, ass into the wheelchair and be off to the club."

I left the room for a few minutes to get the wheelchair for transporting BT. I hung my cane on back of the chair and pushed it into the room and up alongside of his bed. It took some considerable effort on the part of us both to get BT into the wheelchair safely. I turned him around and started out of the room. Before I could get the wheelchair out of the door he remembered that he had forgotten his Camels and matches. I grabbed them from the night stand and we were on our way.

I'm sure that we must have looked a comical sight in our hospital blues, as we proceeded down the long halls and then outside and down the road toward the Officers Club. We had two kinds of hospital clothes; both types were totally shapeless and very unfashionable. The sleep-wear was a thin, light weight, sky blue material with a draw string closure on the pants and a button sown the front shirt, neither of the pieces were made for a one handed person. Then, we had dark blue day clothes made of a heavier material, tie top on the pants, button shirt-jacket with a hospital insignia stamped on the pocket. They were definitely not what someone would want to wear out in public to go dining, but then it was just another concession, to allow us in the O Club, brought about by our circumstances.

We turned and went out a set of double doors and into a beautiful Pennsylvania spring evening. The air was fresh, cool and brisk, trees were beginning to bud out, and the grass was starting to turn green.

The Officer's Club was not very far away, only a few blocks. It was a rather small, but nice looking building located to the front of the hospital grounds. It was a permanent type building made of brick, not like most of the buildings that were referred to as "T" buildings, temporary and usually made of wood with clapboard siding. I was relieved to see a ramp going up to one of the doors. We had started to wonder if there would be a ramp, we could not see one as we had approached.

We went into the dining room and made ourselves as comfortable and inconspicuous as possible, while waiting for a waitress. We ordered drinks and perused the menu. It didn't take me long to decide what I wanted to have. I decided to order a New York cut steak. I had not had a steak since the lousy filet mignon, in Saigon, at the French restaurant. My mouth was all ready salivating as the image of a thick juicy cut of meat soared into my mind's eye. BT was worried about ordering something that he would not be able to cut and eat. I could appreciate his feelings....how humiliating it would be, to not even be able to cut up your own food when just a short time before you could do anything you wanted to do. I assured him that I'd be honored and happy to cut up anything he wanted to eat that needed cutting.

The waitress finally came with our drinks, we both ordered steak, rare, with salad, baked potatoes, and all the condiments that go with it. She put our drinks down and left. We lit up some smokes to have with our drinks then just relaxed and waited for our dinner.

The meal seemed to take forever to eat with my hacking away pieces for the both of us. It was quite awkward, in my slanted position. This being the first time I had really tried to sit to eat at a table, with my cast on, I kept dropping pieces of BT's and my steak, on my chest, but no matter we both enjoyed ourselves immensely. Much time and many drinks later we finished our meal.

We returned to the ward sometime after 2200 hours, neither of us being sure of the time. We had enjoyed ourselves so much we decided to make the "O" Club a regular stop in our socializing. It could not do anything but get better as our conditions improved. We would be able to become more relaxed, be able to sit up better, wear civilian clothes or uniforms, and generally have a better time. With time we would probably even get to know some other people at the club, some that we could party with. Hank had not come with us, he had received a call from his fiancée, she was coming by to visit him. It certainly would have been easier on both BT and I; I am not complaining though, if he would have gone with us, but there would be other times.

At that time we did not know anyone else at the club, so we had remained by ourselves, not much chance at our moving readily about anyway. We were the only men there that were so fashionably dressed....we weren't obvious or anything.... Little did we know that these small feelings of exclusion, which we felt there, only because of our manner of dress and condition, were beginning to run rampant in the hearts and minds of, not only, the American public, but the American politicos as well. That small inkling, of that moment, which we shared in that somewhat closed environment of the hospital, we still believed to be untrue. We had been serving our country, surely America was behind its Armed Forces and especially those wounded and or disabled in her service; those in the service of promoting and protecting freedom and democracy.

JUST HANGIN' AROUND

We began golfing on a regular basis; it was one of the few forms of exercise that I could participate in. I had wished, often, that there was some way that BT could play with us, but then as one of my childhood friend's father used to say, "Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up the fastest!" That statement was just one of those subtle of realities of life.

The next few weeks were spent getting to know more of my fellow patients, and playing golf, cards, pool, and joking around with Jim, BT and others. Jim would remember some crazy thing that Steve Allen had done on the Tonight Show like when he had dressed up as a tea bag and was dunked into a large tank of water or some other stupidly silly thing and we would all chuckle at his remembrance.

My War - Installment 44

2009-11-13T01:26:00.000-07:00

The next fellow, Wade, was in his early twenties, blonde haired, husky build, from what I could see, leaning at my sitting angle. He was from nearby Philadelphia. We all exchanged some small talk for a few minutes and then the conversation turned to a common introductory topic, how each of us had come to be there at Valley Forge General Hospital. Since I was the new comer I had to go first.

I finished a short description about how I got there and gave the floor over to Jim. He began his narrative with nary a hesitation. He had been on leave during Christmas holidays and was at home in Pittsburgh. He had gone to his fiancée’s home to take her out to dinner. They had spent a short time inside her house, having a drink, before exiting to go to his car, which was parked in an alley beside the house.

Jim, with his fiancée on his arm, went out. He began to open the passenger door to help her into the car, when a hoodlum jumped from behind the vehicle with a pistol drawn and pointed it at Jim. The assailant must have been watching the house for some time and knew that no one else was there. He stated that he was going to make Jim's fiancée strip and was going to "have her" while Jim would be made to watch at gun point.

The situation was not a tenable one for Jim. He bided his time and when the, would be, rapist turned to check out a noise in the alley, Jim made his move. He leaped at the man. Jim's ultimate goal was one of diverting the aim of the hand gun, and then to try to overpower the felon, hopefully with the help of his fiancée.

Jim succeeded in diverting the barrel, but during the struggle that ensued, the pistol discharged hitting Jim in the right knee, and putting a real job on him. That was how he had come to Valley Forge.

Wade was next and started right off as if with some practice, I thought that he had probably lived though his personal horror story a number of times. Wade had been at home on Christmas leave, as had Jim. He had been standing outside of a store waiting for his girl friend, she later became his fiancée. The parking in that area, in that Philadelphia suburb, was diagonal to the curb. Wade had been standing and waiting against a brick store front, an old couple drove up into the parking place directly in front of him. The old man had parked too close to the car on his right so his wife could not get out of her door. Therefore the oldster left his motor running, because of the cold weather of December, but had forgotten to place the gear shift lever into the park position. The front tires against the curb were all that held the car from moving. The old geezer got out. His wife slid across the seat, toward his door, to exit. Wade was not watching them closely; because he had been keeping an eye out for his girl. As the old woman slid across the front seat her foot must have hit, and floored, the accelerator pedal. The car leaped over the curb and in a split second had pinned Wade against the wall, crushing his left knee.

Wade continued his story. He was taken to a local hospital, where they were prepared, to immediately, amputate his leg, above the knee. He told them he was in the military and asked to be sent to a military hospital. At that time his decision had been based on financial considerations. The expense would have been tremendous. Since his injuries were not life threatening the civilian doctors agreed to transfer him to Valley Forge, but only after his condition had stabilized.

The military doctors checked him over, and not being concerned about expense concluded that they could save the knee, but not the lower leg. His leg was amputated below the knee, which is far better than an AK (above the knee) amputation. He was thankful that he was in the military.

I found it interesting that fifty percent of the men, the four of us at the table, had been screwed up not even on active duty, let alone not being in combat. They had and would have all of the same privileges and benefits, if any existed, as those men that had been injured in combat. Not that I cared. It was just crazy that so many of the first men I talked with were not combat veterans. I was glad to find out later that most of hospital's patients were combat
veterans.

Another fellow had joined us at the table just as Wade was finishing his story. His name was Greg. He was sort of a weasel looking guy, with longish sandy colored hair, skinny, and thin faced, with a roman nose. His right arm was in a sling and I could see wires protruding from the tips of each finger of that hand. Wade had introduced him and told him to tell us his story.

Greg had been hit, just a fraction of an inch below the elbow of his right arm, with a fifty-plus caliber round. That single round had literally torn his arm off, all that is, but a tiny sliver of skin and flesh, no larger than a pencil in diameter. He had maintained control of himself, and after realizing his condition, he had picked up his forearm and stuffed it inside his fatigue shirt. He called for a medic who put a tourniquet on his upper arm. He was evacuated and they sewed his arm back on. It would take a number of operations and loads of therapy for him to regain any use at all.

I looked more closely at his arm and hand. The fingers were withered looking and very lean. The skin was drawn and looked thin like the skin on a very old person, or perhaps a corpse.

Greg made a comment that we all could have said in a similar way. "It could be worse. I heard of one guy in the hospital in Vietnam, the only wound on his body was that the "head of his dick had been shot off."

We all chuckled, but felt happier not having the just mentioned problem.

We decided to break off our conversation and go to lunch. We would play some cards when everybody got back. All these guys could go to the mess hall, at that time I still had to eat on the ward. I could not complain though, I could use a little time to rest after my jaunt.

I climbed back in bed and laid there quietly thinking about my new found friends. Jim was hilarious; I just knew that he and I would hit it off. That lucky joker was in a wheel chair with a cast just on one leg. Wade was in a wheel chair, like Dave and Greg was walking.

They were all interesting. This hospital life was not going to be so bad after all, especially since I had been healing so quickly and would not be there for very long. It would only be a short time until I'd be joining all these guys in the mess hall. Maybe we could go to the recreation hall and shoot some pool, or snooker, I had heard that there were some tables there.

Later that afternoon, after the card game, Jim and I decided to go to the recreation hall together. Jim was in his wheel chair, I got him to hold my cane and I pushed him using the handles of the wheel chair like a walker. It was definitely an easier way to get around, especially for the guy riding the chair.

We played a couple of games of eight ball. It was amusing to the onlookers, I was sure of that. We figured the game was even because Jim was stuck in a sitting position and I was stuck in a standing position, so the game was evenly matched. There were not very many others in the recreation hall in the late afternoon. We must have come earlier, or maybe everybody else came in later in the afternoon or had come during the day. There were not even any Red Cross workers there just then, but they must have been around, it wasn't even supper time.

We would catch them some other time perhaps. It had been rather tiring trying to reach the table, but we both had a good time doing it anyway. Jim went from the rec hall directly to the hospital mess. We had made plans to get together, after supper, back on the ward.

I bid him goodbye, grabbed my cane and started back. I had noticed that there were a number of old fashioned looking wooden wheelchairs on our ward, the kind with the large wheels in the front and the caster wheels in the back. That type of chair has a back that can recline. So, I thought that if I could get one, I could recline in my cast and roll around in comfort. While moving toward my bed I kept looking for one of the old chairs. I took notice of one back in a corner, seemingly abandon, so I requisitioned it and pushed it over to my cubicle of abode.

On the way onto the ward I had given BT a yell and told him that I would be by later. He did not appear to be too thrilled, but then that was his problem. As usual he was lying covered up and puffing away on a Camel cigarette.

I was glad to get in bed and rest for a few minutes before supper was placed on my table. Walking in that big cast had become a fairly easy exercise. I just wished that eating in it would be getting easier.

Jim came by when he returned from mess and we made some plans to go hassle BT in the morning. I was a relative new comer on the ward and Jim told me that no one fooled around with BT, he was just too bitter.

"Hog wash. I visited him once since I've been up walking and he wasn't bad, just a little down. Don't you think that you would be down and pissed off and everything else, if your own grenade had blown away your right arm and leg?"

"Yea. I guess so; really I think that you've got a point. So we'll go visit him."

"Hey, by the way did you notice my new wheels over there by the wall?"

"What, that old wooden piece of shit?"

"Yes that old wooden piece of shit."

"Those things are hell on wheels. Their almost impossible to steer with the wheels set up the way they are. I had one for a while."

"Come on. They can't be all that bad."

"Their OK if someone else is pushing you or for sitting in to play cards, but that's where their usefulness ends."

"Alright, so I'll use it for playing cards until I can find a better one. When are you getting a walking cast on that worthless leg of yours?"

"Friday I was told. Why?"

"I think that I am ready to hit the golf course and begin learning how to play. Want to give it a try?"

"Sure, why not. I think you’re crazier than I am."

"Fine, so I'm crazy. Tell me something I don't know. Tomorrow we'll go visit BT before we go to check out the golf course and get the details on using it."

"Yes Sir."

OUTINGS

The weather had become very warm that spring and the old radiators were still clunking away, pumping out BTU upon BTU. The windows were opened, but not even the hint of a breeze could force its way over the barrier of heat that emanated from the ancient cast iron clunker radiators. The trouble was that the military seemed to run its heating plant on a calendar, regardless of the outside weather, or temperature. It could be two hundred degrees outside, but if it was the time of the year for the heat to be on, then the heat would be on. We were all miserable, sweating our buns off without any relief in sight. Groans echoed around the ward in the gloom of night, along with muffled cursing about the heat. It felt almost as bad as the heat in Saigon, just a bit less humid.

It was a restless night for all of us. We hoped the early heat wave would stop, or that the hospital could at least turn the heat off.

We were not able to visit BT that morning, because we had to stick around for x-rays and some other small chores to get ready for grand rounds. Not being able to do very much, I joined a group at one of the game tables that was near my bed and played a few hands of gin rummy while waiting.

Again the doctors expressed amazement at how rapidly my femur seemed to be healing, I was very pleased about too.

It was apparently a little known fact that I was an officer, I suppose that it was because of my openness and friendly manner toward all the men. I didn't flaunt it in any way. We were all in the same boat and needed each other.

I had called home and given my Mom the waist measurement of my cast and an approximate inseam length. Mom was going to come down on Friday afternoon and take me home for a brief visit. That was one of the real advantages of being an officer; I had the freedom to come and go on weekends and evenings, if I had a mind to, and if I had transportation.

After grand rounds Jim came by and the two of us went up to BT's room to pay him a short visit. I introduced Jim to BT, who again showed no real interest in our being there. The only time I was able to get a reaction out of him was when I would bum a Camel from him and light one up for him. BT and I remained quietly smoking while Jim rattled off a few quick one liners. I had brought some cards along with me, but it would have been far too crowded in that tiny room for the three of us to play, with one in a body cast, one in a wheelchair, and one in bed. We ended up just talking for quite some time. The longer we stayed and talked the more BT began to loosen up and join in.

We had not been treating him any differently than we would anybody else; no better, no worse than we would have treated anybody or even someone with nothing wrong or with more wrong with them than BT. I was hoping that this might make BT realize that he was not any different. He was still a person, an interesting person, probably a more interesting person because of what he had been through. We were all more interesting because of our experiences, at least I thought so and a lot of the other men did too.

I had just begun to take notice of what was beginning to happen in the world outside the military, with the protests against the United States involvement in Vietnam, and all the anti-war demonstrations hype that was going on. I found it all unbelievable. At first I didn't pay much attention, we were living in a semi-insulated atmosphere there in the hospital, or perhaps, deep inside, we just down right really did not want to believe what we were reading and hearing.

My War - Installment 43

2009-11-10T23:53:00.000-07:00

Rick Sullivan, the youngest looking of the doctors, came by to talk to me for a few minutes after supper and suggested that I wait until morning to test out the boundaries of my maneuverability. He explained that the thicker cast would take longer to dry and if I put any excess stress on it that evening it would likely develop some cracks, which would ruin the cast and perhaps cause me to further damage to my leg. I figured it best to heed his advisory warning. Thank him I bid him a good evening. He told me that I would soon be able to visit the officers club with my new cast on. I was concerned about getting a measurement on the waist of the cast, so I could get some pants to fit as soon as possible. The baggy old hospital pajamas wouldn't do for prowling around the club.

As I laid there in the dark that night there were no limits to the things that went through my mind; and believing that I was going to try with the cast on. There was not only the mess hall to look forward to visiting, but there was a library, a recreation hall, a swimming pool, of no use to me, a gymnasium, a golf course, the officers club, cars to drive, cards to play, friends to make, people to visit, the list seemed to go on and on. I beginning to fall asleep but continued listing things to do instead of counting sheep.

I was awake bright and early the next morning ready to start out on new adventures of freedom from the bed. I was going to make the most out of it.

I reached up and grabbed hold of my trapeze, lifting my upper body above the mattress slightly. Using my free right leg I pushed my left leg, including the cast, over at an angle and off the edge of the bed. I kept my right foot in position on the bed and lifted my upper body higher, while lowering my plaster covered left leg to the floor, in a coordinated combination of raising one section and lowering the other like a child's see-saw. The process took perhaps a minute or so. I did move slower that first time, because I wanted to be sure of what I was doing.

With my body tilted at a steep angle I brought my bare foot down to the floor. My cane was hung near the head of the bed on the upper part of the traction framework. Just like when I had been in flight training and had dreamed about procedures and flight maneuvers, going over them again and again in my mind, I had repeated this maneuver, a thousand times, in my head since getting the new cast. I reached for the cane and then placed it into my right hand; then pushing off of the bed and pushing on the cane I was up on my foot, or was it feet.

My head was spinning, I did not know if it was from lying down for so long, or from the excitement and jubilation of just standing up and what was ahead. I tried a first step. It was strange doing all the real moving using only one leg that hurt like hell and one cane in a hand that also hurt. I would reach out with my right leg for the step and then sort of bend to the right, pivoting on the hip, and then I would lift the left leg, swinging it out and round, either slightly ahead of or in line with where the right leg was. I was almost completely oblivious to what anyone else was doing around me, almost to the point of absolute exclusion.

The cast on the left leg with its pad for walking made the leg about two inches longer than the right, which further added to the difficulty of walking. I felt as if I must surely look like Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein," taking his first steps in the laboratory.

I began to become cognizant of my surroundings in the ward; I had moved halfway through the ward, and was just then realizing or beginning to grasp the overwhelming enjoyment of my new found abilities.

I read the names on the doors to the officers’ rooms as I moved by and saw that there were not as many private rooms as I had previously believed. Some of the rooms were for storage, others for examination. The private rooms, totaling four, had two majors, a captain, and a first lieutenant. I ventured on past the nurses' station, and out into the hall, then I moved across into the next ward. "I'm sailing now," I said to myself. I glanced about to see what kinds of patients were in that side of the ward...

The scene was much the same as on my ward with the exception of a very large circular affair in the place of one of the beds. I asked a nurse what it was. There were two large circles made of chrome or stainless steel tubing, between which was a double sided canvas stretcher-like bed, which surrounded a patient. The large circles were in another frame, which held them, and on which the large circles could be rotated. The nurse told explained that these frames were for patients with broken backs, or necks, or patients who had undergone back surgery. With this apparatus the patient could be held in place, but could also be turned over so that the he could spend some time on back or belly, depending on the wants and needs of the patient. By using this bed structure the probability of bed sores was greatly reduced.

I was becoming more confident with each passing moment, more sure with each strained step. I turned and began the journey back to my bed, my first adventure having worn me down a bit. I'd have to try a few more walks and start to get to know some of the men I was living with later that day.

After lunch I planned to take another walk. I had learned that I would not be expected to go to the mess hall until I was free from the Spica cast; this was due to not being able to bend and sit in a chair. I would postpone any decision about going to mess hall until after I had a chance to experiment with sitting.

I launched myself from the bed and started out again, this time, having planned a little better, I even had a slipper on my right foot. I moved toward one of the tables and grabbed onto the back of a chair. I lowered myself down and stopped propped at an angle, touching just the front edge of the seat and the top edge of the back of the chair. I had to place my right foot along side for stability. I could sit up in a chair, whether or not I could sit up and eat, might prove to be a difficult matter, unless I could grow longer arms.

BUDDING FRIENDSHIP

I struggled up from the chair and strolled through the ward again, this time paying more attention to the men that were there. While awkwardly walking along I noticed that the doors to the officers’ rooms were open. In passing I nosily tried to look into each one to see who the occupant was. The majors looked altogether and normal. The captain looked really down in the mouth and was apparently missing part of his right arm,. Looking more closely I could distinguish only one bump where his feet should be. He must be missing, at least, a bare minimum of, a right foot and perhaps more.

I went in uninvited after knocking, thinking that he might want some company. He didn't act very thrilled.

"Hi, my name is Sam, Sam Rollason, I've just been here a short time and I'm trying to meet a few people."

"Yea big deal."

"What's your name?"

"Mullens - Captain BT Mullens."

He just lay there grinding his teeth in a closed mouth, not seeming to be especially interested in my being there. He did not move or even take more than a quick look in my direction. I knew that I was going to like this guy.

His night stand was clear of everything, except some Camel cigarettes, matches, an empty crumpled Camel's packet, and an ash tray full of butts.

"Mind if I bum a smoke, Captain?"

"Naaw, go ahead. Just call me BT. Light one for me, would ya?"
"Sure." It seemed that the ice was breaking.

I roughly tapped the packet of Camels on the bottom and pulled out two of the unfiltered smokes, sticking them both between my lips. I carelessly flipped the pack back on the night table, awkwardly reaching forward I picked up the matches. I was teetering somewhat as I tore off a paper match and dragged it across the phosphorus strip, bringing it to life. I guided the match to the tips of the two fags, while eying BT. I inhaled, drawing on both to make sure they were lit and then put one to BT’s lips. He drew in, taking the smoke deep into his lungs and then put the cigarette between the first and second fingers of his left and only hand, before exhaling a cloud of blue-gray smoke.

"Thanks!"

"Sure anytime. You into playing cards or anything like that BT?"

"Not really. You see I lost my fucking right arm and right leg. So, I'm not too...a...into that shit any more."

He was definitely bitter. I couldn't blame him. Here I was some jack-leg clown covered in plaster barging in on his privacy. But then for some reason I believed he needed to have some one force their way through his wall of discontented frustration.

We remained in silence, BT just laying there and me just standing there, uncomfortably swaying back and forth, while he ground his teeth and smoked. BT looked like he was somewhere between twenty-six and twenty-nine, it was hard to make a good guess with only his head and one arm really visible above the covers. His hair was red and his face was freckled over a ruddy complexion, the blue of his eyes appeared to reflect the steely blue anger that he must have felt inside. He had told me that his arm and leg had been blown off by his own grenade, which had a short fuse.

"I think you ought to play some cards with me. Don't give me that crap about you can't play because you lost an arm and a leg. It takes head power, I can supply the hands, the foot is no excuse for not playing cards anyway. Cripes, between the two of us we can muster two and one half good hands any how."

I left BT to think over my offer and continued on by the next few doors and across the central hallway and into the next ward again.

I was beginning to move more easily now that I was getting use to the cast, as well as the knack of manipulating it. I moved on into the ward and again became fascinated with the circular bed. I approached the bed and peeked at the name plate. There was a major hidden in that bed somewhere. I stumbled up and introduced myself. He told me that he was getting his back fused, four or five vertebrae were being joined together, due to the amount of damage; the doctors had decided that a fusion was the safest and best means of treatment. He hoped to be out of the contraption within a few weeks and looked forward to joining us. His name was Ben Johnson and he seemed a very personable man, easy to get along with and easy to talk to. He was in his mid to late forties, maybe older, and was just a real nice fellow to chat with.

After talking for a few minutes I said goodbye to Major Johnson and walked along a little further in the ward. I had not noticed it before, I don't know why, but the great majority of these patients were very young. I considered myself to be young, I was only twenty and within a few months would be twenty one, but these guys looked like they had been shipped in from some high school somewhere. There was one kid with both arms missing below the elbows. I talked with him, he was eager to tell me his story. He seemed to be pleased that an officer or anybody for that matter would take the time to listen. He had been sitting on a "shitter" in Vietnam, reading a comic book when some dodo, that had been cleaning his M-16, carelessly shot both of his arms off. His lower arms and hands had fallen to the ground, still holding the comic book. The stumps were far too torn up to even attempt to graft them back on.

His story of a careless act by someone else reminded me of some of the incidents that had happened in my own unit. There had been a private, from New York City, playing quick draw with his side arm one afternoon and shot one of our crew chiefs in the back.

I was beginning to theorize, from seeing all the young men there in the hospital, and from observations of the young GI's in Vietnam and their careless ways, that many of the young were not prepared mentally for the war they were sent to fight. Perhaps they actually believed that it could not really happen to them. Many had that youthful belief that it just could not happen to them. I know there were few times when I had thought that way.

There were other young fellows missing legs, arms, feet, and other having wounds of varying severity. I turned around and started back to my side of the ward. I figured I had spread enough joy or discontent in my wake for one morning. Ben gave me a wave as I shuffled by and I nodded while smiling my acknowledgement.

My aim was to see if I could join one of the double-deck pinochle games down at my end of my ward. I had learned to play pinochle years before. My big sister Judy had taught me and I had played partners with her and her husband numerous times. I was considered to be a fair player.

The policy in military hospitals or rather with the military in general was to place patients in hospitals within their home state, or at least within their home geographic region. So the patients were almost all from Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, and surrounding states, at least I had a regional association in common with everyone.

I moved on in and lowered myself into a vacant chair at the card table. There were three others there talking when I arrived. They all stopped as I went through my seating procedure and applauded when I had finished. I can not say that it felt good to sit down, because it didn't, but it did take a load off of my free leg.

One of the men was Dave, the drop foot fellow whom I had met briefly. He was a tall thin man…no he was downright skinny, he looked like he was in his mid twenties with dark brown, almost black, hair, cut in a typical military crew cut style. Dave was a lieutenant. He had been wounded in both legs. His story was not too glamorous compared to what was to come. The next fellow was in his early twenties and was a dead ringer for Steve Allen. His hair was black, wavy and combed just like his name sake look-a-like. He wore glasses, black horn-rimmed, just like you know who. He even talked and joked like Steve Allen. He was from Pittsburgh and his name was Jim.

My War - Installment 42

2009-11-08T15:06:00.002-07:00

The hospital layout was basically all on one level, with long interconnecting hallways joining the buildings. The long halls had trim that similar to a chair rail that ran along the walls, this trim was used by the blind to find their way around. There were many other interesting details about the hospital. I wondered how much was true. I do not remember the story well, but the information about the hospital made a lasting impression on me.

Being alone in the room was nice, there was little to do other than watch TV, so that was what I did and how I spent my first weekend back in the States. Monday would come soon enough and with it another move, the one coming up would be to my final resting place, hospital resting place that is.

We arrived at Valley Forge on a Monday afternoon. The hospital was the military installation, there was no Army Post or any thing like Fort Dix, the hospital was the installation, in its entirety. I never really got to see the outside of the hospital that day, other than the entrance to admissions. I was taken to admissions, and after being processed, I was rolled to Ward 3AB. Just as in the Valley Forge Hospital movie, there were the tremendously long halls connecting what looked like two story buildings. As I was pushed along I could see that even the two story sections, at least some of them, perhaps all, had long ramps to the second floor levels.

I arrived at 3AB and quickly glanced around from my vantage point. The wards took up the entire space of one of the two story buildings. Two wards were on the first floor and two on the second floor. The hall ways bisected the buildings so that there was a ward on either side. The nurses’ station covered both wards; it was located on one side of the building, like space on the other side was set up as a cast room. I was moved onto the “A" ward and pushed down a hall past a number of small private rooms, each room displaying the name of its officer tenant. All the rooms were full so I assumed that I would not rate getting one of them. I was moved into the open ward area which was divided into sections, with four beds per section.

I was placed on a bed in the last section on the left side of the ward. There was a frame on the bed. Surely I was not going back into traction, I thought. I was placed there in the bed and then left wondering what was to happen next. There was nothing first class about this place. It was clean and nice in a way, but it was definitely old. Institutional green walls, old cast iron radiators putting out too much heat, double hung sash windows all stuck shut, nothing very impressive.

The center area at that end of the ward was set up like a day room. There were tables and chairs and they were all full. Men sat in chairs and wheel chairs around tables playing cards. They paid little attention to my arrival, continuing the play of the games. Here was another new place to get use to, new people to meet and try and get to know. I had to start all over again, and these guys did not appear to be all that friendly. Probably a misconception, I thought. I decided to take a nap.

When I woke up that afternoon I was greeted by some new doctors, new to me, Jim Sargent, Rick Sullivan and Major Gunderson, all orthopedic specialists, but then this was an orthopedic ward.

They informed me that I would be removed from my cast and would be placed in a Thomas splint, the same type as when I was in traction, but there would be no traction weights. I would spend at least a week in the splint, in bed, and then some more x-rays would be taken. Some were taken later that afternoon, so that they would have a record for reference. My x-rays from Japan had not arrived with my other records.

After the doctors left I practiced my self hypnosis to pass the time. I had my mind set on not waiting the full year to be walking again. The other aches and pains were hanging on, like my lower back and almost every joint in my body, but then I just figured that my whole body had been through a great deal of trauma, I hoped that all the other aches would pass with time.

The food at Valley Forge General Hospital was pretty good, even if the accommodations were a bit shabby. I was told by some of the ambulatory patients that the food in the mess hall was even better than what was served on the wards. In the mess hall there were choices and as much as you wanted to eat. There was also whole milk, chocolate milk, tea, coffee, and usually some other beverages. I wasn't sure if they were telling me all that to torture me or just to inform me. No matter, it was all something for me to look forward to.

I slept uneasily that night, probably too much rest during the day. It was some time after breakfast when the boys from the cast room came to remove my cast. Within a short space of time I was in my Thomas splint and able to bend at the waist again. With my torsional freedom came the loss of vehicular mobility, that being gurney riding, but I figured the doctors knew best.

I inquired about the use of a telephone, and found out that I would be able to make one free call from my bed, via a portable telephone. I made arrangements to call home later that day. I planned on telling my folks that I was at Valley Forge General Hospital in Phoenixville and would ask them to relay a message to Emily. When I did talk to them they told me they would come down to see me in a few days, most likely on Saturday.

A few of my fellow patients on the ward came by and introduced themselves to me, before the morning card game, but didn't stay long. I could appreciate that. They already had their friends and I made them a bit uncomfortable after they found out that I was an officer, time would tell.

I was unable to see very far in the ward, but I could see that there were a variety of orthopedic problems. One of the fellows I had met had drop foot, a problem which I didn't quite understand. He said that his wound had left him unable to raise his foot so he was undergoing a series of corrective surgical procedures. He told me that there were a variety of patients on the ward. There were patients that had under gone arm amputations, and leg amputations, there were head injuries, broken bones to include necks, joints that were mangled, broken backs and on and on. I would get to meet them all in time, and hopefully get to know them, or at least some of them.
There were about thirty two men on the ward. I had counted, on my trip through the ward, four beds per cubicle and there were either four or five cubicles per side of the ward, that part I was not too sure of. So by my count, it looked like there was between thirty two to forty beds on each ward. That was not counting the officers rooms, which were all occupied. I wondered how many wards there were and how many patients were at the hospital. I guess it really didn't matter how many there were.

I needed someone to talk to, somebody to say something, anything....a positive remark....a nasty jib, anything; anything at all. Being in bed was getting to me. Especially since I could lay there and watch the other men doing things. It was not so bad in Japan where everybody on the ward was stuck in bed. If I could go visit some of the officers, develop a bit of camaraderie with...I decided I'd better stop feeling sorry for myself, there were plenty of other men there that were worse off than I was.

My parents came to visit me that first Saturday, they even brought Emily with them, which I thought was very nice....seeing that they didn't know her from a hill of beans. I had been snoozing quietly; they had passed me by a few times not recognizing me. I found it hard to believe that I was that beat up or different looking, but then I had not looked at myself that often, and then only when shaving and then in a small mirror, seeing only little parts of my face at a time. It must have been the mustache that I had been growing since entering the hospital. Originally I had the idea of growing a handlebar mustache, but had soon given it up, because it required far too much attention and care, not to mention that without mustache wax, every time I would wake up from a nap the ends would be in my mouth.

Emily, to my dismay, had cut her pretty, long, brown, hair. She still looked good though. It was great to see Dad and Mom. I could tell Dad felt out of place there in the hospital. Everyone, but Emily gave me a hug and a kiss. I remembered that she had decided to like me under some odd circumstances, to my way of thinking, which I was not too sure of.
"Sorry I can't get up and greet you all more formally, it sure is good to see you all."

Dad was not the only one that looked as if he felt out of place. Emily was doing a good job of looking uncomfortable herself, having been immersed into that pool of broken people. I took my camera and snapped a few pictures of my visitors for posterity, while showing off the camera. I knew I was home, seeing my folks, it had not been a big shuffle around the world, I'd been sent to the right place, I hugged Dad and Mom again, while Emily sat rigidly near the foot of the bed.

Dad and Mom chatted, telling me how business was and how my brother was getting ready to build a house on some acreage that Dad had in Susquehanna Township, outside of Harrisburg. Emily sat saying nothing. I could not believe that she knew what she was getting or had gotten herself into, with writing to someone that flirted so casually with death and disaster as often as I had. I really think she felt it a lark when she got the idea to write to and "fall in love" with me. I certainly was not convinced of her sincerity. Time again would tell.

My visitors didn’t stay very long. I think they all felt like fish out of water, especially with me stuck in bed like I was. I thanked them or coming to visit and gave Mom and Dad hugs and kissed each one. Emily just sat quietly at the foot of the bed and then waved a little good bye as the left.

With the new week new x-rays were to be taken. I had spent most of the previous week practicing self hypnosis and concentrating on reinforcing suggestions about healing my broken leg. My x-rays from the 249th General Hospital had come in so the doctors would have them for comparison. I had talked them into showing me all the snap shots, since I had not seen any of them while in Japan. I was looking forward to the doctors’ rounds and taking a look at the pictures.

The x-ray technician had come by at 0900 hours and was back with the new pix, to be put in my folder, before rounds would begin. Just before rounds would start, one of the staffers on the ward pushing a cart on which everybody's x-rays had been placed. I saw the cart being pushed onto the ward, so I was becoming anxious for the doctors to get to my bed. I wasn't sure why I was so excited, I just had a good feeling about that day.

The doctors had a portable, back-lighted, x-ray viewing arrangement. It was portable because they had placed the viewer on a gurney. It was pushed up along side of my bed. One of the doctors began placing the pictures in a progression along the two rows of clamps on the viewer. The first showed the break and the ragged ends of the femur, surrounded by innumerable bone fragments; another early view from a different angle showed that, although the ends were, what the doctors called aligned, the upper bone piece, from the hip down, seemed, to me, to be cocked at a very odd angle.

The later pictures showed a lump of calcification, lump is not right, an area of calcification, which showed that healing was progressing well, and that the bone ends were stabilized. The doctors seemed to think that very good progress had been made, far exceeding their expectations. One even commented that he did not understand how everything could be healing so quickly. I thought I knew, but then I was not about to verbalize my thoughts and feeling on the matter at that point in time.

"Well, it looks like we are going to have to put you back in a cast, Sam. A walking body cast called a spica cast. The cast will be just a modification of what you came here in. It will go from above your nipples and all the way down your left leg. Your right leg will be completely free, from the bend in the hip down."

"So, I'll be able to walk! Is that what you’re telling me?"

"Yes, with a little practice and a cane for balance you'll be able to move around quite well, I would think. You seem to have the desire, from what I've seen in notes in your records."

"When can I get the cast on?"

"This afternoon, is that soon enough."

"Sounds great, terrific, I can hardly wait!"

It is common practice, at least to my knowledge, for bed ridden patients to have certain kinds of a...maintenance care performed on a regular basis. Things like, being checked for bed sores, in those cases a lamb’s wool pad is to be issued to lay on. Another thing like having your feet inspected and washed and lotion rubbed into them is done periodically, this is done because layers of skin build up, I was told, on the feet and does not get sloughed off under normal usage. As the skin gets thicker it can become hard, dry and irritating. It must have been my lucky day or it may have been because I was going to be casted that afternoon.

A corpsman, a black fellow, very friendly to me since my arrival, had come to administer care to my feet, a normally enjoyable experience; that is, unless in a ticklish mood where I would find it hard to keep from laughing while this was going on. He began by greeting me, then he immediately moved to the foot of the bed and started to lather up a wash cloth to wash my feet, beginning with the one in the splint, which he was more careful with. After he finished one wash job he moved over to the other foot. He dried both feet and then got some lanolin enriched cream or lotion from his cart. He began to massage the stuff into my feet. That's when it began......

"Sir, you have lovely feet," as he tenderly stroked and caressed my toes with his hands.

I had just been laying there relaxing not paying very much attention; usually finding the process far more enjoyable when done by a female.

"What'd you say Sergeant?"

"You have such beautiful feet, Sir!"

"Uh huh, that's what I thought you said. What, exactly, is your problem Sergeant?"

"No problem, Sir. You just have s-u-c-h lovely feet." All the while he passionately kept rubbing and stroking and trying to get his body closer to my free foot.

This guy was either queer as a three dollar bill or he was just queer for feet. In any case I decided either way he was one queer bird that I wanted nothing to do with.

"Sergeant, I believe you better leave. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated by me, and if I'm made aware of actions like this, by you, again, to anyone I'll report it. Is this understood?"

He looked a bit shaken as he quickly gathered his paraphernalia and hurried off with out saying another word. I personally was glad to see him go.

It was some time after lunch when the boys from the cast room came to get me for my fitting. The walking style Spica or walking body cast, as I called it, was very much like the last one; the only difference being, no plaster on my right leg and therefore there was no cross bar going from leg to leg as there had been on the other casts. I did not know if the bar had been for added strength for the cast or just to be used as a handle for those persons stuck with manipulating me and the cast around.

I think it took longer for them to do the walking cast than it had taken for the previous cast that I had been awake for. It took them longer because the hip area, between the leg and body sections needed to be reinforced to withstand the pressures of walking. Then there was the foot pad and its reinforcing layers of plaster impregnated bandaging.

I was taken back to my bed to finish drying. As soon as drying would be completed, I'd be able to take it out for a spin. If the test drive went well, I would be able to go home for a weekend if I wanted too. I had planned to call home and get my Mother to buy a pair of pants for me that would be big enough to fit over my cast. There I was only a little over four months since my injuries and I was going to be up and walking around. I could hardly wait.

It seemed to take forever for the cast to dry. The normally cozy, moist, warmth of the plaster became pure aggravation. The plaster reached the cool clammy stage by the time supper was served. As I ate I wondered whether it would be possible for me to go to the mess hall in my new cast. Not being able to bend at the waist would certainly be limiting as far as the things that I would be able to do. I'd just have to wait and see. I would have to experiment and find out the limits for myself.

My War - Installment 41

2009-11-08T11:10:00.002-07:00

Lights were turned out early on that ward. Darkness covered everything and there was nothing to do, but lie there in the dark and smoke and think. I stared at the ceiling and thought of the men still up on the traction ward, my friends. I reminisced about how we would all lay awake at night, not being able to sleep at times; some of the guys would light farts. No one would tell anybody else when they were going to do it. You would see a match light up and then an unexpected blue flash as the methane fart gas was ignited. It was a general, and well known, rule that you should always light a fart with your drawers on; otherwise you could easily burn all the hair off of your butt. Matches were commonly used; they afforded ease of manipulation being more easily handled than a cigarette lighter. I had enjoyed watching the men on the ward cutting up and had often wanted to join them, but thought that as an officer, it might be looked down on.

Thoughts of Sandy and Emily flashed in my mind's eye. My eyes strained toward the windows looking for anything to fix on. I lay awake and dreamed of getting on a gurney and zooming pell-mell down the halls of the hospital, visiting other men and seeing what every person in the place was doing.

Before it got too late I called for a bed pan to take a dump. Going to the toilet while in a body cast can best be described by saying: it’s like trying to take a crap through a table top. Just lying on your back and trying to go is bad enough. Your butt is all scrunched together and ... I decided that I was going to try an alternative method, because I just could not go, even though I knew I had to. I continued to lay there trying to figure out just how I was going to be able to get to a real toilet. I had made up my mind that I was not going to use a bed pan again.

They must have had the same cook for this ward that we had on the other one. At least the hairy scrambled eggs made me feel at home. When one of the nurses came around I asked for a pair of crutches. She looked at me kind of funny, but said that she would see what she could do about it. In my mind’s eye I was going to use a toilet. My well planned idea was ready for first trial. I talked the nurse and a corpsman into helping to stand or prop me up beside the bed and adjust the crutches to the proper length. Without their help, I tried moving using only the crutches. It was hard, but I was managing. I was driven by the desire to not to have to use a bed pan, the curse of the bed ridden.

I made it across the room to the door of the bathroom. Then carefully and slowly I inched my way to the first stall. I was apprehensive, if I lost my balance I'd crash down like a felled tree. More than likely smashing the toilet, and would have about as much chance of getting up, by myself, as running a foot race. I gingerly swung around in the doorway of the stall and then grabbed, placing one hand on each side of the doorway. Holding on I leaned back at an angle and took careful aim. When I believed that alignment was achieved I let'r rip. Success, ah that was the most comfortable bowel movement I'd had in months. Taking a dump, something to really be proud of, one of mankind’s truly great pleasures. I pulled myself upright and then used a crutch to hook my hospital, baggy pants, PJs and pulled them up over my nakedness that protruded from my cast. I lifted a crutch and flushed my mission a success.

I was glad to get back to my bed. Although the journey had been worthwhile, it had been tiring. I rested for a time before lunch was brought in and practiced some self hypnosis assuring my subconscious that I would heal faster and do better on my next trip.

After eating, write some letters sounded like a god proposal. I pulled my pen, paper and envelopes from my bedside cabinet, then positioned my bed table over my cast covered body. The stinking lousy table had some loose bolts which made it tilt awkwardly across me, darn thing bounced up and down when I put the weight of my arm on it too. I flipped up the tilting portion of the table so I would be able to see what I was writing, placed an ashtray on the inside flat end, and lit up a cigarette, a Pall Mall, and began to write. I had only taken a puff or two off my smoke before I smashed it out in the heavy glass ashtray and continued my scribbling. Caught up in my writing I paid little attention when the ashtray fell off the end of the sloping table and clanked against my cast covered left leg. "I'll get a corpsman to brush the ashes off the bed later," I said to myself and continued as before.

I had just finished one letter and was writing "FREE" where the stamp would go (we had free mail in Vietnam, but needed stamps for mailing film and things like that) when someone on the other side of the room started yelling.

FIRE!! YOUR BED'S ON FIRE!! YOUR BED'S ON FIRE!!"

Wow, somebody's bed was on fire? I wondered how that could happen, I was too busy and too uncomfortable, with my head all propped up, to look around and see where the fire was. The fellow across the way kept yelling "YOUR BED IS ON FIRE." and I kept writing, he kept yelling so I finally looked up. Holy Toledo, it was my bed that was on fire. That's the trouble with those filter-less cigarettes, if they are not snuffed out just right, they lay there and smolder until there all gone. There was nothing I could do, so I just continued to lay there in my cast and watch the smoke and flames come up around my leg. Maybe they would fix my table. Soon there was enough, agitated, noise making that one of the staff members, a nurse, of the female variety, my preference, came running onto the ward. For some reason there were no call buttons at our beds, no alarm to bring a nurse running to help, but then I'm sure that they were not expecting jokers like me to be setting the beds afire.

The nurse grabbed a pitcher of water, from some GI's bedside table, mine was empty, I had checked, and dumped it on my bed; the excitement was over. My mattress was changed and I got a different table, but just to play it safe I decided to do some more self hypnosis and stay out of trouble for a little while. Even while I rested word of the incident spread like wild fire through the hospital's underground, giving many a laugh I'm sure.

The next few days went smoothly, I stayed out of trouble. I spent most of my time reading, eating, practicing self hypnosis, and sleeping. I had decided that I was not going to write any more letters until I got to Valley Forge General Hospital in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. I had given everyone an indication of when I expected to be in Pennsylvania. I had told them the expected month and week. All that was left was to get there, I would be able to call any person I had a mind to on the phone when I got established there.

One afternoon a few days before I was to be gift wrapped and shipped out, the Commanding Officer of the Hospital came onto the ward with a photographer. He approached my bed and introduced himself before presenting me with a purple heart for one of the times that I had been wounded. George Washington was the person who initiated the award and a profile of his bust was on the medal on a, heart shaped, field of purple. My name was even engraved on the back of the medal. I was impressed. If I had known that I would have been in a position like I was in then, I would have tried to get written up, for Purple Hearts, for the other times I had been wounded.

The photographer took a picture of the CO pinning the medal on my hospital pajamas and then they both quickly left the ward. I unclasped the pin on the back of the medal’s ribbon from my hospital PJs and proudly placed the medal in its case. I took the silver K-wire that had been through my leg and placed it beside the medal and closed the lid; two souvenirs for the future.

Two days later I was in route again, to Tachikawa Air Force Base, on the first leg of the excursion home, only one more night in Japan. As I laid there in bed passing the time some Red Cross workers came by. I had developed a keen dislike for the Red Cross due to my experiences with them of the past half year. One of the women stopped and talked to me for a few minutes. She was friendly enough and not bad to look at either. She told me that I looked just like Doctor Zhivago, in the movie, who ever the heck he was? What ever movie she was talking about, I had no idea. She said my mustache was just like his and my dark sunken eyes, still dark and sunken from the severe blow on the head from a couple of months back. She continued for a few minutes and then left. I lay awake most of the night reading, too excited to sleep. I still had that same excitement about traveling that I always had. I was glad for that, but disappointed that I still would not be able to look out of a window and see where I was going.

The next morning we were carried out to a waiting C-141 Transport. The stretcher bound patients, like me, were stacked on racks as before. I was on the bottom again but near a door, with a little luck I might catch a glimpse of something through the door, if we stopped some place.

Within a few minutes after take off I was sound asleep; there was nothing else to do. I was not aware of how long the flight was supposed to last; I woke up one time to relieve myself. The flight nurse handed me a little cardboard urinal, which I quickly filled to the top and placed on my cast, waiting for the nurse to pick it up again. I fell asleep before it was retrieved. The next time I woke up was when the urinal dumped on me and the urine ran down, all inside of my cast adding insult to injury.

We landed in Fairbanks, Alaska. I wished that I had not been by the door. We were told that the air temperature was hovering in the low teens, low teens below zero. However it felt lower, because when the hatch was opened the cold rush of air that tumbled in on us chilled us to the bone. The only thing that covered me was a chincy little blanket over my cast and baggy hospital PJs. Being by the door, I did get to glance out. Snow was piled deeply along the taxi-ways that I could see.

There was a bright side to it all. A women's auxiliary from the air base came on board with donuts and cold, ice cold, drinks, they were even free. It was a nice gesture, even in the chill arctic air.

After refueling the hatches were pulled to and the cold flow of air was stopped as heat again started to circulate in the aircraft. What relief. We were off for Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. I fell asleep while humming Simon and Garfunkel's "Homeward Bound", I slept most of the way, my urine soaked cast had dried and I was a bit more comfortable by the time we arrived on the east coast.

We were unloaded and put into, panel truck type, ambulances and taken to waiting UH-1D Hueys to be flown out, some of us by way of Fort Dix, New Jersey, others to points closer to their homes.

It felt great to be flying in a helicopter again even if I was in a horizontal position on the bottom shelf. There is a totally different feel to flying in a helicopter, which I had always found exciting. Being excited about being in the air, and in a helicopter, reminded me of one day when I had our recon platoon leader along on a scouting mission. He had expressed a sincere interest in seeing what it was like and how reconnaissance was done from overhead, so-to-speak. He rode with me during one of the periods when there was a lull in the action. The ground units were not being used very much, it was between the 506 action and the LZ Bird massacre. He was a little nervous from the moment that we had taken off, but I just figured that he had some butterflies and that he would soon settle down. Well, he never did. He complained that he felt like he was hanging on a string in a basket, and that he was a sitting duck, being out in the open; there was nothing to hide behind, nothing to even jump into, or at for cover. Once during the flight we had been shot at and he really started to moan.

"I don't see how you guys can do this. You'll never get me up here again. I'll be happy to stay on the ground."

I reminded him that he was the one that had requested the opportunity to come along, and that I could not just abandon the mission because he was uncomfortable in the H-13. He finally did settle down somewhat. But, he never asked for another ride. His short trips in the Hueys were enough for him, he said. Of course my feelings were just the opposite. I wouldn't trade the flying for anything. It beat walking any day.

We landed at one of Fort Dix's med evac pads and were met by, a panel truck, ambulances again. Some medics jumped from the ambulances and began to unload us. On the bottom layer as usual, which meant that the medics would have to lift me and my cast to the top level, which was the third level in the ambulance. They must not have taken notice to my cast. They grunted and groaned as they lifted me out. With much effort, they got the head end of the stretcher on the top shelf and slid me in. There was only one problem; they had not pushed me in far enough. My feet, at least from where I was looking from, were at least two inches outside of where the door would be when they closed it. I noticed this small discrepancy, unfortunately, just as they were in the process of slamming the rear doors. I yelled, but too late, the door crunched shut on my feet, both of which I was incapable of moving. I yelled again but to no avail. The medic operating the door, thinking that the door just didn't close properly, slammed it again and then he must have hit the door with his shoulder. Great, this was like a bad scene from an old cartoon and besides, it hurt. I managed to get his attention after a few minutes of yelling and the problem was rectified, to my great relief!

After a short ride we were at the hospital. The building was quiet impressive, a multi-storied structure which could easily have been a modern civilian facility, from all appearances. I was unloaded, placed on a gurney and wheeled to one of the upper levels of the main building. There I was placed in a semi-private room, no less, all to my amazement. There was no one else in the room; the whole place was mine. Fantastic! There was a nice color TV on the wall, remotely controlled, and the bed was electrically operated. I could raise the head or foot of the bed with the flick of a switch, or move it anywhere in between. It would not do me much good to have the bed go into the curved shaped recliner position, because I could not bend at the waist. I could adjust the height of the bed with another switch. There were just all kinds of neat things to be amused with; it was definitely a first class operation there at Dix.

It had been mid-afternoon or there about when the C-141 had arrived at Dover and it was then creeping up on supper time. If the food was as good there as the accommodations it would, most assuredly, be a good place to spend the weekend. I just hoped and prayed that Valley Forge would be as first class as Fort Dix was.

Supper came and I was equally astounded by the food. Roast turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and the whole nine yards. I thought that, per chance, I had been unconscious in a coma for a number of months and there was a holiday or something that I was unaware of.

It was even easier to eat there with the electrically tilting bed I could position myself comfortably for eating. I enjoyed my meal while swilling down REAL chocolate milk, real as opposed to reconstituted or powdered milk. I topped off the meal with pie and coffee. I felt like a king, it was good to be home. The nurses were good looking too.

After supper a short nap was in order, after having basked in the luxury of the hospital's food and finery. When I woke up I flicked on the TV and enjoyed my first American TV shows in over seven months. English was actually being spoken. I watched show after show straight through the Tonight Show. Then the late movie came on and then the late-late movie. It was a strange coincidence that the late-late movie was one about Valley Forge Hospital. The movie was based on facts or on I true story one or the other. The name of the movie was “Bright Victory, first release in the United States on 31 July 1951. The story took place at Valley Forge General Hospital after the end of World War II. Valley Forge had been a blind rehabilitation center toward the end of and after War. The plot line dealt with how men dealt with disabilities that they knew would linger for the rest of their lives. The main character was Sergeant Niven, I believe, and had been nominated for two Academy Awards and many other film awards.

My War - Installment 40

2009-11-05T10:37:00.000-07:00

Next I pulled or rather slid the box containing the record player from the gurney and tore it open. It was made by RCA Victor of Japan. It wasn't fancy, but it looked fine to me and hearing it would tell the real story. I was not able to weasel it into position on the night stand by myself so I had to do a little more waiting so I put it out of my mind.

I clutched the last bag from off of the gurney. I tenderly removed the box containing my Ashai Pentax camera. I quickly removed it from the box and just admired it for a time. I had been interested in photography for years and had been the first in my family to buy a good camera at the age of eleven after I had earned and saved enough money. I had started doing darkroom work even earlier when my older sister, Judy, ten years my senior, had given me a darkroom outfit for Christmas one year. I had even built my first enlarger from an old view camera that I had found somewhere. I pulled myself back to the present and admired the very nice piece of precision machinery, the best camera I had ever laid my hands on.

A corpsman came by and I asked him to set up my record player. I donned my headset, put on a record and lay back to read the instruction manual for my camera. Fortunately, I had enough foresight to have carefully placed the camera on my table, because the next thing I knew it was morning again.

The days and weeks began to blur into one long agonizingly boring ordeal. Every day it was the same institutional green walls, the same exact routine with the staff personnel: doctors, technicians, and ourselves. I had never realized how much my freedom of movement had meant to me and how useless I felt without it. For me it was impossible to seem to do anything productive. I felt that way because I viewed the hospital and the broken leg as a temporarily debilitating set of circumstances, even if the doctors said it would be at least a year.

I would have much rather been confined to a wheel chair or at least in a sitting position where I would have some sort of mobility. I knew there were plenty of others that had lost limbs and I was pretty well off comparatively, I thought. My back ached constantly; I had mentioned it almost from the beginning of my hospitalization. None of my other multitude of continuing aches and pains seemed to mean anything to anybody but me.

"If it still hurts when you get to the States you can tell them to check it out there," I was told.

"Fine I'll do that!"

We had a number of instances of blood clotting on the ward at varying times since that first one. There were occasions when the whole ward was awakened, that is other than people that were sedated, by the, now familiar, hacking and coughing that was associated with the swallowing of a plastic tube by way of the nose.

STATESIDE EXPERTISE

One day while lazing about listening to records and playing cards with Jack, the doctors came onto the ward with an older looking fat man. We all decided that he must be a civilian consultant from the States. This man had a very pompous air about him and was very loud, to the point of distraction. He obviously wanted everyone to know he was there and what his opinions were. Everyone included every patient on the ward. I felt that if everyone had not been awake when he came in that this particular pompous ass would have shaken them awake individually so they would have to hear his “wonderful voice and astute and educated opinions.”

There were a number of men on the ward that had developed phlebitis (blood clots associated with inflammation of a vein), in an extremity that had been wounded or otherwise drastically traumatized. This consultant fellow started to tell everyone on the ward, both patient and doctor alike. That in his, thirty odd years, in the practice of medicine that he had never had one single case, not one single patient had ever developed phlebitis. He did not stop with that statement, he went on and on about it, and about how great he was. I was pretty sure that our doctors felt embarrassed by this, consultant, guy. But when the brass would send clowns like that in, there was very little, if anything, that anyone could do, except grin and bear it. I decided that I would take it upon myself to come to the aid of our doctors....in a small way. Even a dummy, like me, could see that phlebitis would be more prevalent in cases of severe trauma.

When the doctors, during their grand rounds (grand rounds were visits to every patient), came to my bed I asked Doctor Smartass, with great enthusiasm, "I am so happy to meet you Doctor, such and eminent doctor and scholar, as well as a specialist on Phlebitis. I’m sure your experience is vast sir. How many patients have you treated in your thirty years of practice that had sustained trauma from armed engagement, either gunshot, grenade, or mine type wounds, doctor?

"None," he replied.

I smiled and thanked him. Case closed. The other doctors smiled at me, trying to conceal their faces from the consultant. They had recognized my point, whether Doctor Smartass had or not. Apparently the good doctor took it as a question prompted by curiosity, because he believed himself to be above question. After he had given me his answer, he quickly continued rounds in his boisterous manner.

One afternoon I was lying quietly in bed, nothing new or exciting. The sky outside was a pretty blue with billowy cumulus clouds floating by behind the buildings out side of our windows. Strange how I had not been looking outside much, it depressed me, made me sad, knowing that I could not enjoy any of Japan first hand. Almost everyone on my end of the ward seemed to be awake for a change and aware of the beautiful day outside. There was only one thing wrong, everything was down right quiet. Suddenly, and without warning, a sickening quickness and silence came over the ward. On the outside of the building were heavy concrete structural beams, probably 12 or more inches square. These thick upright e structural members of the building began to sway back and forth in movements of what appeared to be two feet or more. I guess it looked like they were moving more than anything else, because they were an easy reference point. Actually the whole building was swaying and shaking and shuddering like crazy. The weights which applied the traction force on my leg, swung on their cords from the traction frame, back and forth like a pendulum on some grandfather clock; they continued to swing to and fro long after the quaking had ended and during the multiple after shocks.

"Nice earth quake, eh Jack?"

"Very interesting; I kind of expected to see things start to fall apart for a minute. There are supposed to be lots of quakes in the Japanese islands. They must build for them."

"I guess they do. There's no apparent damage anywhere, but then all we can really see is this ward."

"How about some cards, Sam?"

"Great. Let's do it."

"Doctors say that I'll be shipped out of here next week, Sam."

"That's great Jack, really. I'm sure your wife and kids will be pleased to have you close to home."

"Yea, I can't wait. It'll be nice; I haven't seen my kids in a long time."

Jack left that next week like others I had come to know at the 249th. Just like any other unit or place in the military you made friends, got to know them and appreciate them and then suddenly they were gone. In Vietnam the only difference had been that there were more ways to unexpectedly be gone.

I was lonely after Jack left. He had been the only other officer on the ward, not to mention his being a pilot. We had started our brief friendship with a lot in common. Oh well.

I started to use self hypnosis more often and read the Bible and other books more after Jack was gone. As I all ready knew, before I had acquired them, the articles I had bought would not satisfy me or make me happy. They had just been things that I figured I needed and could get cheaper in Japan. I was just taking advantage of being in Japan, since I had never had the chance to go on an R & R.

One day after "X-ray man" had made his rounds and the doctors had looked at my new pictures. (A patient's entire set of x-rays was always brought by before rounds.) I was informed that my turn to be packed for shipment had arrived. I would be put into another body cast from high on my chest down to the toes of the left foot, my right leg would be left out from just above the knee down.

"Hey doc, where am I to be shipped?"

"I believe that you’re headed for Valley Forge General Hospital in Pennsylvania. Yes, I think that's what I remember."

"Sounds great to me; how long till I leave?"

"Oh, about one week, I'd say. You'll be cast today and moved to a transient ward. You'll be shipped from there when they're ready for you."

"Thanks for everything."

"Take care, Sam."

"Right, I have no choice do I?"

My doctor turned and walked away, chatting to his colleagues. Thompson came in a few minutes later and began packing my belongings that I had acquired during my stay. The larger items would be shipped ahead of me. I kept my camera with me, not wanting it to be damaged by careless handling.

There was a publicity team that came through the ward right after the doctors, it was becoming a busy day. Two one star generals, General Doleman and General Felenz stopped in to visit on the ward. They stopped by my bed and talked to me for a few minutes, a photographer snapped their picture beside my bed while they pretended to show interest in me. It was nice talking to the brass and fun in a way. They told me that I would get a copy of the picture at some later date, turning they left my bed and continued to visit on the ward.

Some guys from the cast room came in with one of the orthopedic doctors, to prepare me for casting. A doctor would remove the pin from my leg, and then the other men would take me to the cast room for a fitting. The pin had been loose for some time in my leg. In fact loose enough that I was able to slide it back and forth, it had also been oozing a little puss. I had taken it upon myself to slip it to and fro in my leg. The doctor arrived and after wiping one end of the silver wire and the hole with some disinfectant, the doctor took some stainless steel, sterilized, side cutters and snipped the K-wire close to one side of my leg. As the doctor turned to replace the cutters on his wheeled table I reached down and pulled the K-wire out myself. It slipped out very easily.

Spinning around the doctor said, "I told you it would be quick, painless and easy. Thank you for your help. You know we'll miss you around here Mr. Rollason."

"Thanks, I really appreciate hearing that Doc."

He left and the cast boys took over, carefully lifting me onto a gurney for my first ride since my telephone calls.

I had not been awake for my last cast so it would be a new experience for me. It took the cast room people thirty to forty-five minutes to incase me in plaster, it could have been longer, I had been keenly interested. I didn't really keep track of the time because they had asked me to remove my watch, another of my recent purchases, an automatic winding Seiko. I had not been able to find a good watch in Vietnam after mine had been stolen. Even the “Timex” brand seemed to be of the counterfeit variety. The Seiko was a prime piece of jewelry in my mind.

I was rolled back onto my gurney after casting and pushed out into the hall way. The plaster was warm and moist and it felt sort of comfortable and reassuring in a funny way. I had made sure that this cast was equipped with a rear exit. The cast would soon turn cold and clammy before truly starting to dry out and harden completely.

Even entrapped in those many pounds of plaster, I had already started to feel more mobile. I was told that when the plaster dried completely that I could roll over, that I could be propped up on one side, and that I could lie on my stomach on a gurney and push myself around with canes or crutches. The idea of actually having some mobility excited me a great deal. I was not really sure how limiting the huge cast would actually be, but I would certainly find out my limitations within the cast.

I was wheeled to my new ward on the ground floor and placed in a bed off to one side of the room by myself. The cast would definitely take some time to get accustomed to, but then I had gained....some limited freedom; no longer confined traction. Everything in life is a trade off of some sort. I could no longer bend at the waist and assume a semi-sitting position, but I could live with that. I could put up with anything for a time.

The only possessions that I had with me were all stuffed in a little drawstring bag that had been made by a women's auxiliary group in the states. I didn’t know who they were, but they got together and made them up bags to send to military hospitals everywhere, to be given out to patients. I had some stationary, a book, my Bible, my toilet articles, my camera, my wallet, and some smokes. I still had an occasional smoke when I really got bore or depressed.

There were no people near me in the ward. The others were all enlisted men. I got the feeling that the staff wanted to keep any officer on the ward separated from the other men. The cast had dried out and had lost its warmth by the next day. I borrowed a felt tipped marker from one of the nurses and printed "MADE IN JAPAN", crudely, across my chest at the top edge of the cast.

I had forgotten how incredibly hard it was to eat and drink while flat on my back. It took longer and adjustments had to be made, I had to revert to the use of flexible straws to drink and slow sure movements with utensils to get the food to my mouth instead of my cast. It was all a continuing adaptive process. It would only be one more week and I would be going home. Short range goals were the key. I would face any problems at home when the problems presented themselves; one day at a time became my motto.

My War - Installment 39

2009-11-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

He took the picture anyway, that is, after the commotion settled down, so that the doctors would be able to see if it needed to be manipulated back into position. The patient had been livid with rage; a torrent of curse words erupting from his mouth. If he had not been attached to the bed, I'm sure he would have leaped off, and disregarding his pain, grabbed the X-ray man by the neck to chock him to death, or at least knocked him senseless. The rest of us were very defensive while "X-ray man", a name the technician had just acquired that morning, finished his picture taking rounds.

With the excitement of the morning over things started to settle down to some serious relaxing; like what else was there to do? Jack and I watched a soap opera. I soon dozed off again and did not awaken until the lunch wagon came rumbling and clattering onto the ward. I was beginning to believe that my mind and body were using sleep as a defensive or escapist mechanism to help alleviate my boredom. I decided that after lunch I would make it a point to stay awake and have a chat with the doctors when they came. I still had not asked if I could try the, swing to the side of my bed routine, to try placing some weight on my right leg during sheet changes on my bed. I would have to wait and see.

Spec-six Thompson came onto the ward to bring a bedpan to someone. On that ward a patient was devoid of any privacy when going to the toilet. Any way his presence gave me a chance to call him over; I wanted him to do some more shopping for me, if he was up to it.

Since I had never had an R&R and being that I was headed state side when my leg stabilized, I would not be able to shop for some of the things that men serving in Vietnam seemed to traditionally buy to take home. I had a few things in mind to buy. I could handle not being able to buy some of the fancy stereo equipment. There was just too much variety of electronics on the market to decide without looking and of course listening to it. I knew what kind of camera I wanted so I would get Thompson to pick up an Ashai Pentax 35mm camera with and f1.2 50mm lens and some film. I would just have to get him to pick up a small stereo record player and a bunch of contemporary, easy listening, music albums for me. Of course all this depended on whether or not he would be willing to get it for me.

It took very little persuading, on my part, to get Thompson to agree to do the shopping for me. I gave him some money and thanked him again and again for his kindness. A little something else to look forward to, I told myself. The camera would really be a great item to take home; I'd even be able to snap a few shots of the ward and all the turkeys I was spending so much time with.

The doctors came by right after Thompson had left with his bedpan full. They said I could give the standing a try, but just take it easy while doing it. Their decision to let me try the standing bit made me feel pretty happy. I could relax now and practice some more self hypnosis to pass the time.

My self hypnosis was working out great. I would wake up more refreshed and with a better attitude after practicing it for a few hours. I kept giving myself suggestions to, hopefully, heal my leg faster and to generally make me more comfortable and contented with my confinement. The nicest part was that it was working. I seemed to be proving to myself some of the things that I had read about self hypnosis, and that I had practiced on others. I already knew that it worked; it was just that it seemed to make more of a difference right then and under those circumstances. I also was using it to discipline myself to reading the Bible daily. God's word was helping me to accept my situation more than anything.

Philippians 4:11 "Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatever state I am, therewith to be content."

OFF TO THE TELEPHONE

Supper had been over for forty to fifty minutes when Jack and noticed a whole group of doctors and corpsmen hurrying onto the ward. They quickly grabbed one of the traction patients, bed and all and whisked him out to heaven knew where. It was not unusual for medical personnel to come onto the ward and look at someone; we were not aware of them having checked this guy out before the entourage came in. We were at a loss, without the slightest idea of what was happening. Traction is a very isolating situation. There had been a guy, just across the room, whose name we did not even know and now he was gone. Why? We would probably find out later, so we returned to our soap opera.

I had made arrangements earlier in the day with some of the medical staff to be wheeled to the telephone sometime after supper. They informed me that they would come and get me at the proper time, in order that the time would be correct on the east coast of the United States.

Transport time arrived and I was moved to the pay phone down the hall. I got an operator on the telephone and, after some minutes of talking, explaining and repeating and repeating I managed to convey to, the Japanese female, operator that I wanted to make a collect call to my father Thomas Rollason at area code 717 – number - 564-2910 in Pennsylvania in the United States of America. I could just visualize the trouble that my folks were going to have figuring out what was going on when she would get them on the line.

When I did get through to them it turned out to be 0300 hours in the morning, so much for the figuring of my friends on the medical staff. By the time I got hold of Emily it was about 0345 hours and thirty-six dollars worth. Her father worked for Bell Telephone and wanted me to know immediately how much the call was going to cost me when I got back home.

I was left in the hall alone for a time waiting for someone to come along and push me back to my spot on the ward. Finally, a corpsman came to check on me.

"How did it go, Sir? Did your calls go through?"

"Yes, thanks. Everything went fine. It was just a small issue of the time being screwed up a little."

He pushed my bed along slowly, to keep the weights from swinging and clattering into the bed frame. When we got back to the ward I noticed that the soldier who had been taken away earlier had returned. As my bed was moved close to his I asked the corpsman to stop for a minute. The young man was asleep, probably sedated; the leg that was in traction was cut open, on the outside of the leg, from ankle to hip. There was, it appeared, a saline solution being trickled along the entire length of the incision, flushing it and keeping it from drying out. I did not have even the foggiest notion as to what kind of a procedure they had done on him. The whole cut was wide open; very puzzling. Little pumps hummed and whirred; the fluid bubbled and trickled through the wound continuously. I scratched my head in puzzlement, and then motioned for the corpsman to move me back in place.

We finished out the evening, Jack and me, watching some American shows that had been dubbed in Japanese. My thoughts while watching the shows were not on the action, but on Emily and the phone conversation we had just had a short time before. My picture of Emily, which came to me by way of Vietnam, was in my hand and I looked at it longingly. My waking thoughts were full of Emily, but it still made no sense to me why this beautiful young girl had suddenly decided to “fall in love” with me. I just would not be able to fully believe it until I could experience her in person; not until I could see her and hear her face to face, then I would start to believe, maybe!

"They must have gotten a new cook in the kitchen", I said to Jack,

“Why do you say that,” he replied.

"Because the menu has changed, "there is no hair in the eggs this morning. Matter of fact, there are no eggs." Instead we had pancakes. "Perhaps the old cook has some time off to grow more hair."

I could just discern the soft whirring of the motors that operated the suction and pumping devices that were attached to the guy across the ward. He was awake that morning, but looking as if he had been heavily drugged.

Jack was up and about early, a ridiculous statement for someone that is bed ridden. John the black fellow on my other side quietly fell back asleep while eating his breakfast, pieces of pancake had fallen all over his chest. His mouth hung open and syrup covered his chin. Yes it looked as if it was just another regular day in the traction ward.

The morning was progressing normally. I noticed when I looked out the window that it was snowing. There was not very much to be seen from the windows, especially since they were clear across the ward. The view was that of any very large city, just the tops of buildings and more buildings as far as the eye could see which was not very far that day. There were no really large building like I had originally expected, but then I didn't know where, in this the largest city in the world, the 249th General Hospital was located.

The snow must have started falling the previous evening and when one of the corpsmen came in I asked how deep the snow was. He told us that it was nearly two feet deep and that the storm had dumped the deepest snow to fall on Tokyo in the past twenty years. Tokyo was just full of excitement, so much, in fact that I thought I would take a nap.

Thompson had rotated to another shift and had a few days off before he was due to come back, so he had plenty of time to check on my items. It just seemed like it was taking forever. Patience, my boy, you need more patience. After breakfast I tried my standing up act for the first time and helped the nurse change my sheets. It felt good to get off of my back and backside, if even for those few brief moments. The snow had stopped by noon and was all ready beginning to melt and form beautiful icicles outside of the windows.

A corpsman had come on the ward and I asked him if he could get me a deck of cards from somewhere.

"No problem, Sir. I'll be right back."

"Thanks sergeant, I really appreciate your getting these for me. While your here..."

I had him rearrange the furniture so that my bed could be pushed up against Jack's. Now we had another diversion; we could waste time playing cards.

The weekend went by slowly, but finally Monday arrived, and with it, Thompson would be returning to work, hopefully with all my goodies. The regular cook must have just had the weekend off too. We were back to our usual fare.

I was becoming quite a hand at grabbing my trapeze and swinging off the bed to help make it. It had taken very little effort to get the maneuver down pat, thanks to my gymnastic ability, and I looked forward to it each day. The old nurse, the major, gasped every time I'd zoom out over the side of the bed to help her, my youthful exuberance making her nervous.

The afternoon passed slowly while waiting for Thompson's shift to take over. Jack and I played some gin and watched a little TV to pass the time. Super came and it was another meal not worth remembering; breakfast, even with hairy eggs was better than any of the other meals. I hoped that I would not be in this hospital or any other hospitals for very long. The food couldn't be much worse at the next hospital. State side at least there would be a chance of improvement, because there would be Americans cooking American food instead of Japanese cooks cooking American food.

Thompson came in for his shift early; he entered the ward pushing a gurney loaded with, well partially covered with packages. All mine, I chuckled to myself. Thompson pushed the gurney up beside my bed with a smile on his face.

"Here you go, Sir. I hope the albums are all right, I picked out twenty that I thought you might enjoy."
"Twenty record albums plus all this other stuff, amazing how much more money do I owe you Thompson?"

"None, I owe you some change!"

"I find that hard to believe, but then you must know."

"I've got to go on duty. I'll check with you later. Here's your change."

"I just don't know how to thank you, Thompson. You've really been a great friend to me. I sincerely appreciate all that you have done."

"No problem. I'm glad that I could do it for you. I've got to go now."

"Thanks again!!"

He handed me an envelope containing my change and then left to go on duty.

Wash up time came straight away so I had to wait a little longer before examining my purchases. I still could not get accustomed to the helplessness and dependency of being tied to the traction frame and bed. Not being able to do anything or to be in any position other than on my back; not being able to do a simple thing like rolling onto my side, was really frustrating at times.

Time had arrived for me to inspect my prizes. I grabbed the bags of records to see what Thompson had chosen for me. I began to riffle through the albums; I was awe struck by the prices on the jackets. The records had been purchased at a PX and the prices were cheaper than the PX prices in the States, these albums unbelievably priced between, $1.70-$2.20. There was Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Sergio Mendez and Brazil 66, Peter Paul and Mary, The New Christy Minstrels, Percy Faith, The Ray Conniff Singers and many others. Thompson had even bought a stereo head set so that I would be able to listen privately and disturb no one.

My War - Installment 38

2009-10-30T12:06:00.004-06:00

"Welcome to the 249th General Hospital, Mr. Rollason. I'm Major Gray, head nurse on this ward."

"Nice to meet you Major."

"How was your breakfast?” she asked.

She seemed like a good old gal, so I answered the way I felt.

"Fine, Major, except for the hair on the eggs. I saved them, would you care to have a look?"

"Certainly not, that's horrible....hair on your eggs!?"

"Yes, Ma'am, long black ones.

"I'll talk to the kitchen."

She put some fresh sheets on my bedside table and then started to peel off the dirty ones. I asked if it was OK for me to try and swing off to the right side of the bed and stand on my right leg, while she made the bed. She told me that I had better wait and ask the doctors for permission. She did not want to assume the responsibility if anything happened. I couldn't blame her. I thanked her and told her I would ask when they came around.

The Spec-six that had gone to the PX for me previously was on duty that morning; I talked with him about checking out the price on one of the five inch screen Sony TV's. I didn't want to ask him to do too much at one time. He said he'd check some prices for me on his way home that evening. This was great, I was on my way to becoming a Japanese soap opera addict, even though I didn't know it at the time.

I tried reading that morning, while waiting for the doctors to make their rounds. Eventually they came. They had not been by the day before, because they had been in surgery. They strolled onto the ward and began examining the, post OP, patients at the far end first. They moved along briskly, talking while they poked and probed. Eventually they came by my bed and examined me, talking among themselves as they looked at my X-rays.

I was not able to hear much of what they said, but believing I would return to my unit in a few months, I started to ask questions.

"How long will it be before I'll be able to go back to my unit, Major?"

"I'm afraid you will be going State-side. It will be about one year before you’re walking well again."

"You have got to be kidding, right? That's just not possible.....it’s..., it’s just a broken leg isn't it?"

"Well, not exactly, don't worry, you will be OK."

They quickly moved on to the next patient, while I thought about going into shock. How in heaven's name could it possibly take a year? I'd be going back to the states. Gee, I should have waited to write to my folks. Everything had suddenly changed. I would have to write them again, and write Emily also. Oh well, I just figured I'd try to make the best of a bad thing. They say the Army takes care of its own, I told myself. The government knows best, yeah right? Perhaps I could call my folks and Emily if I could get to a telephone.

When the doctors left the ward I asked Captain Jack Clark if I could have another drink of his Scotch, I needed a lift. I was so shocked when the doctors were there that I had forgotten to ask them about standing off to the side of my bed on my right leg, but then I could do it next time they came around.

A couple of days later Spec-six Thompson brought me my TV. After I thought about it I was not too sure how smart a move it had been to get the TV, everything would be in Japanese, but then I believed that I would be able to follow the stories, by just looking at the pictures. At least it seemed logical and it would be something to pass the time. He had dropped it off and left immediately. I was so excited, like a kid at Christmas time opening up packages. I carefully broke the packing tape and pulled the staples from the lid, flicking them into the ashtray on my bedside table. I awkwardly wrestled the small set from its box and removed the packing material. There, in all its glory, sat my sparkling, brand new, five inch black and white Sony. There was only one problem. I could not for the life of me plug the little bugger in and I was dying to try it out. I would feel like an ass if I had to call a nurse or a corpsman in just to plug in my TV, so I just lay back and waited. Maybe the waiting would make it better when I did get to turn it on.

The ward was quiet, all of the patients were still in their beds, even the excitement of my TV arriving had little effect on the routine of the day. I closed my eyes and dozed off while waiting for someone to happen by. Being on the traction ward, it was not as if I could ask somebody near by to jump out of bed and plug me in. There was no sense in getting too excited getting the TV working, it was just a matter of time and time was all I had.

I was awakened by the sound of the lunch wagon rolling up with its clattering dish ware, and stopping at the foot of the bed. I immediately, before the food service person could unload my tray, asked if she would please plug in my TV; I said this while looking at her through sleepy eyes and holding up the plug. She removed my tray from the stainless steel cart, placed it on my table and plugged me in. Ha Ha, at last.

"Thank you, thank you very much."

I noticed, still through blurry eyes, that she wasn't bad looking at all.

"Doing anything later on, Miss? You could stop by and visit with me....."

She blushed slightly, said nothing and went about her business.

I ate lunch quickly to free up the bedside table for use as a TV stand. The bedside table is an adjustable (height wise) table that goes across the bed from one side and can be used by a bed ridden patient for eating, writing, washing etc.

I placed the Sony on the table and moved it out between Jack and me. Figured that I might as well share, then I turned it on. I clicked through the channels to see how many stations I could pick up and to get an idea of what was on each of them.

There was, what I believed to be, soap operas. The characters were from the Japan of antiquity. The main character being a samurai warrior who could easily take on fifteen to twenty other warriors at one time and always comes out on top. Of course this was always done in the defense of a fair maiden. All the talking was in Japanese, but it was fun to watch and full of action.

The next show that we watched was Bonanza with dubbed in Japanese. It was really amusing seeing and hearing Hoss Cartwright and the others, seemingly conversing in Japanese while riding into town or walking into a saloon in the old west.

Finally the pas de resistance, sumo wrestling. Sumo rates in the same category as baseball in the states, and perhaps it rates even higher since it is such an ancient sport. Sumo wrestlers start their training while very young, like three or four years old. They learn or rather start to learn the tricks of the trade early. Eventually as they grow older they learn to tuck their testicles up inside their bodies and bind them up. This is more efficient than an athletic supporter's cup. Those of us that could see the TV enjoyed it, but that was only two of us. It definitely would not due to stare at the tiny screen continually. I'd have to find a few other ways to pass the time even though it was enjoyable.

Supper came and my eyes were aching from all the TV watching. I could not believe that they ached from watching TV per se, but from watching the small screen from a distance. I was trying to share the picture and it was giving Jack and me both headaches. My right eye was still a bit fuzzy from my accident, all the TV watching probably contributed to the strain. I fell asleep that night still watching TV, the last image that I remembered was one of sumo wrestlers ritualistically purifying the ring with salt.

The breakfast wagon woke me up. The nurses seemed to be easier on the traction patients. They let us sleep longer before making us wake up and wash up, which was usually after breakfast. It really felt strange just lying in bed until breakfast time. I had gotten so use to going to bed between 2300 hours and midnight and getting up between 0300 to 0330 hours and getting three to four hours sleep with an occasional longer night accommodating this hospital life was really going to take some getting use to.

The days moved by slowly, my chatting with Jack and TV watching were punctuated with increasing numbers of naps, which were becoming longer and longer and more and more frequent; I wasn't sure that I had ever slept so much.

I had dozed off again, which was getting to be a normal occurrence, when I was jolted from my dream world by an almost constant gagging and coughing sound emanating from the far end of the ward in the post operative area. The gagging and coughing was periodically, every twenty to thirty seconds, drowned out by a barrage of voices variously talking and yelling such things as "NO!! NO!!" "Just swallow, just keep on swallowing, that's all you need to do. Just swallow and breathe."

As it turned out, Jack told me later, this was a scene that was repeated quite frequently on the post operative ward. Men would come in from Vietnam with gun shot wounds or grenade or other shrapnel type wounds, with a great amount of torn up lacerated tissue. Blood clotting would develop, and so forth, hence "Phlebitis". Part of the treatment was the insertion of a tube into the stomach, via the nose and then down the throat. Hence the repeated commands to swallow and also the continual coughing and gagging from the patient trying to swallow the tube, which would be attached to a suction pump.

I was glad when the ordeal was over, with its near blood curdling cries, moans, gasps, coughs, and such Maybe it was worse having been awakened by it all from a good dream. I was just glad it was over and that I could get back to some heavy duty sleeping before lunch time.

Since I had left Vietnam and the strictness and discipline of Alpha Troop I had started to grow a mustache, which after these weeks in the hospital was starting to take shape nicely. I could lie about and feel that I was actually accomplishing something, although not much; growing hair is no great accomplishment in my book.

I started to lay some plans for having my whole bed moved down the hall to where a pay telephone was located. The plan was to call my parents first and then Emily during the same excursion. All I would have to do would be to con a couple of corpsmen into pushing me down to the phone. First I would have to figure out what time of day to make my move. I wanted to call when my Dad would be at home as well as my Mom. I would have to give it some thought and decide what would be best, along with calculating the time difference.

JUST CONCENTRATE....RELAX....YOUR FEELING DROWSY!

While growing up I had developed a keen interest in hypnotism and had seriously studied and then practiced on cousins and friends for years. I had also practiced, even more extensively on myself with self hypnosis, for a number of years. Practicing since entering the service just was not feasible until now, because I was too busy with training and Flying and then Vietnam. The hospital situation with its unlimited and uncommitted time line would be the perfect place to practice my self hypnosis. I remembered some of the more fantastic claims made about hypnotism. I had read where common colds had been averted for years using suggestions, which it was theorized, increased the number of antibodies in the immune system. I was unable to recall all of the details, but I did remember how fascinated I had been with the inquiries. One thing I did remember in detail was an experiment that I had done with a cousin of mine. He had a sore throat. Under hypnosis I had suggested that the circulation would temporarily increase to the throat area and the soreness would go away, so that his throat would heal faster. After I suggested this I had watched in amazement as his throat turned a bright pinkish color from the increased circulation. I had always taken my study of hypnosis very seriously and considered myself to be on at least a Para-professional level.

As I remembered these things I figured that it certainly would not hurt, and perhaps it would help to heal the broken leg faster. It was worth a try. If nothing else self hypnosis was a great way to pass the time and was a good exercise in self discipline. I decided to give it a try. There was absolutely nothing to lose in any event.

I positioned myself as comfortably as possible on my bed and began the process of relaxing my body to begin self hypnosis; talking myself into an altered state of consciousness. I had placed a suggestion in the subconscious that I would wake up when my subconscious detected the sound of the incoming mess wagon. It worked, waking up feeling more rested than I had in quite some time and for the first time took notice that the girls that brought the meals around were Japanese, civilians, I guessed. I spoke to the girl as she brought me my tray, she did not seem to understand anything that that I said. There was no wonder any longer that the girl here previously had not replied when I was talking to her. She had probably realized that I was addressing her, but had been unable to fathom what I was saying.

I ate and then watched TV until sleep overtook me around 0200 hours in the morning.

Breakfast came as usual the next morning, hair and all. Again I felt more rested even though I had a comparatively short sleep. I guess I was getting used to being constantly on my back and with leg in the air, a totally unnatural position. It was X-ray day; we all waited in anticipation to find out if progress was being made inside our bodies. There was one fellow across the ward that was, he had been told, about ready to be shipped state side. All he needed was a good report from the day's X-ray and he would be packed for shipment in a new body cast. I did not know the fellows on the other side of the ward. Matter of fact I did not even know the guys on my side of the ward that were more than a bed or so away.

The X-ray machine was driven onto the ward around mid-morning and the technician began to X-ray the traction patients, the short timer being the first in line. The technician moved the portable machine into place with great precision and expertise for a lateral shot of the patient's leg. The thickness of the leg was measured, the width and breadth for the shot were determined, the exposure calculated and the aperture set on the head of the X-ray machine. The technician reached for and retrieved a large sixteen by twenty, or about that size, plate, in its heavy metal shielded frame, from a rack on the side of the machine. He held it up and attached some metal letters to the edge before explaining to the patient how it was to be held. He wanted it done in this particular way, so that a good lateral picture could be taken. Then, holding the plate high, to move it carefully over the patient's leg, he clumsily let it slip from his hands. The heavy film holder dropped directly, edge first, onto the leg and re-broke the fragile setting of the femur.

My War - Installment 37

2009-10-29T10:28:00.000-06:00

It was mid-morning, after I had taken a nap that they came with a gurney to take me across the hall to my new bed. I was pushed into my new ward and unloaded into an empty bed, between two guys that were in traction. I noticed that my new bed also had a traction frame, in fact, that entire end of the twenty or more bed ward was set up as a "traction patients only" section. I was told that a doctor would be coming by in a short while, to set up my traction; just another great new experience to look forward to.

After I was lifted into the bed, with much grunting and groaning from the corpsmen, the cast and I must have weighed a considerable amount, one of the corpsmen went for a plaster saw. He came back, plugged the saw in, and started cutting my body cast in half. The cast was being split so that the top section could be lifted off. It took quite a long time to go up the outside of each leg, up to just below my armpit and then down the inside of each leg. I was a bit concerned as the saw approached my crotch. When the saw cut was completed they took some pliers-like chrome plated spreaders and opened the top of the cast a little. Then they took bandage scissors and cut the cotton wrapping before they finally lifted off the top section of the cast. It was kind of like removing a mummy from his/her crypt.

"Don't try to lift your legs from the lower section of the cast no matter how strong the urge, Sir!"

"I won't promise, but I'll try not to. OK."

They pulled a sheet up to cover my nakedness, and laid back to wait for the doctor.

"I was told that they didn't pin your leg in Qui Nhon, Sir" said one of the corpsmen.

"Huh, what? Oh hello. What did you say?" I had dozed off for a few minutes.

"They didn't run a pin, of silver wire, through your leg for us to hook the traction clamp to. Normally it would have been put in the OR, when they put your cast on. We will have to get some K-wire and run it through your leg before I can hook up your traction."

"Sounds like that could be real fun, right? Tell me, when will all of this take place and where?"

"I'll get the stuff and will do it now. Here!"

"Wonderful,” I thought to myself.

He was back in no time at all with a nice little stainless steel tray full of sterile goodies, covered by a sterile towel. The men in the beds beside me all pushed themselves up on their elbows to watch the proceedings. The doctor pushed his wheeled table, with all his instruments on it, up between the beds on my left side.

"Well, Mr. Rollason. Have you ever had one of these before?"

"No!" I replied.

"Well, I've never done one either. We will do our first one together."

Very reassuring, I said. He marked a spot on the outside of my left leg just below the knee joint with a felt tipped pen. Then he put a mark on the inside of the leg opposite the first. He took a hypodermic, filled it with a local anesthetic, and injected some of the fluid into my leg at each of the pen marks. At least he looked like he knew what he was doing; I was impressed. The local was to deaden, or lessen, what was to come next. He reached under the sterile towel and withdrew a stainless steel hand drill and a straight length of, what he called, silver K-wire. It looked more like a thin silver rod as he fitted it into the drill's chuck.

"And what, might I ask, are you going to do with that, doctor?"

"Now that the marked areas are deadened we will, excuse me, I will simply drill the wire through your leg."

"Just like that, Huh?"

"Yes, just like that."

He placed the tip of the wire on the pen mark, as I placed one hand on each edge of the mattress, he started to turn the crank on the hand powered drill.

I didn't feel much, as some blood began to trickle from the drill hole. The poor black fellow on my left side fainted. I just squeezed the mattress when the drilling felt uncomfortable.

"I can feel it! I can feel it! The damn thing's going in crooked!" I said as calmly as possible.

"Ha, Ha." Nervously. You really can't feel it. The pressure is all that you feel. Don't worry."

"Pressure my ass, Doctor; I can feel that wire or what ever going in crooked."

As I spoke the wire popped out of the front of my leg below the knee cap. The doctor looked slightly embarrassed. He turned and we eyed one another up. We both raised our eyebrows. He reversed his cranking motion and withdrew the wire. He checked it, straightened it and began to drill a second time. Even after all that it came out a bit off target, but then nobody's perfect.

He proceeded to align the wire, with equal pieces extending from either side of my leg. He attached a clamp to the wire. The clamp was either a stainless steel, or chrome plated mechanism sort of "U" shaped that had a little toothed gripper device on each end to grab hold of the wire. In the center of the "U" shape implement, at the top, a weight line was attached, weights were added to the line, I was officially in traction.

The traction frame embraced the entire bed, coming up from the four corners of the bed to a height of about four feet. It was hard to judge the exact height lying down. To the uprights another rectangular frame was attached at the top. To this frame there were interconnected cross-members to which pulleys and other devices, such as a trapeze or pull up bar. which I could use to pull myself up into a semi-sitting position.

I raised my right leg from the bottom portion of the cast, placed my foot down beside the bottom section, placed my hands beside me and lifted my self up so that the cast could be removed from beneath me. Ah ha, at long last I was released from the confining itchy grip of the cast. I was free now to explore the entire breadth of my single sized mattress.

When I had first arrived at Alpha Troop I was asked to select a method of notification for my next of kin, in the event that I would either be seriously injured or killed. I had chosen to notify my parents myself if injured, that is other than some tremendously debilitating injury, like if my arms were blown off or something like that, where I could not write for myself. I figured that since I was free from the cast I would be able to write to them and tell them that I had been injured. It would be easier coming from me, I thought, than from some official, impersonal, telegram or what ever. All I needed were some writing materials.

I had been in luck, so to speak, my pay had been straightened out just about one and one half weeks before sustaining my injuries. It would probably take another couple of months, or longer, for it to catch up with me in the hospital. The luck I had was good, since I had not been paid the small amount that I would normally have received, my pay had ballooned and accumulated into a tidy sum. The sum of which was in my wallet at that time.

One of the corpsmen, and older Spec-six, had been very friendly to me and had offered to go to the PX if there was anything that I wanted. When he came by with my lunch I asked him if he would pick up some paper, envelopes, and a pen for me. He said he would be happy to. I was also informed that I could just wait and pay him after he had picked up the items; then there would be no question as to correct pricing and so forth. I was quite pleased with this arrangement.

I wrote to my parents that afternoon to inform them of where I was and what I was doing. "....I'm in Japan, in a hospital, the 249th General. I got hurt last week. All that happened was that I broke my leg, other than that I'm doing fine. I'll tell you more, when I know more... Love Sam."

I spent some of the afternoon writing other letters and chatting with some of the other men around me in this traction ward. One of the important letters that I wrote was to a girl that was going to the high school that I graduated from. I really don't know how she had decided that she liked me or that she loved me, but I wasn't about to argue with a girl as good looking as she was. Her name was Emily; she was a few years younger than I. I had known her sister, who was a year ahead of me in school. Both of them were good lookers, I had never dated either one. It was hard for me to fathom the sudden interest in me, but as I said there was no point in arguing over my good luck. I could see her in my mind's eye, long auburn hair cascading down over full breasts; dark, warm, brown eyes that made me yearn for her, full lips ready for kissing. I would definitely have to keep writing to her and see her when I got away from Vietnam and back to the States and Pennsylvania. Perhaps my luck with women was changing.

One of the men beside me was a captain, another helicopter pilot. He had been shot down in the 506 Valley the day I had discovered the NVA that were set up for the pre-truce ambush. He was in traction like everyone else around that end of the ward. I was hesitant at first to tell Captain Clark that I was the one that was, in fact, responsible for his predicament. But, then he wouldn't be able to get out of his bed to get at me if he had a mind to. He did not even hint at being angry or upset; instead he offered me a drink of his scotch. He told me that it had been prescribed by the doctor.

Scotch was not my favorite, matter of fact I do not believe I had a favorite, but I accepted his cordial offer. The prescription was probably one to help alleviate the obvious boredom of traction.

While we continued talking a fellow came on to the ward walking behind a self propelled, Rube Goldberg type, contraption, which turned out to be a portable X-ray machine. He drove the machine up beside my bed and said hello. Taking a large film holder from a cabinet under the X-ray machine he placed it under the area of the broken left femur. He fiddled with the machine adjusting it and exposed the film. He repeated the procedure shooting a few different angles before finishing. With the portable X-ray machine the doctors could keep weekly progress reports on all of us traction fellows.

After the X-ray technician left, Captain Clark and I talked some more. He was interested in hearing about the outcome of that day, in the 506 Valley, which had sent him to the hospital. He was a nice enough guy, in his mid-thirties, I guessed. His hair was reddish over his freckled narrow face. His constant smile was infectious, not to mention it was good for moral. We had another short snort before supper that afternoon while continuing to talk. It seemed to hurt him to hear of the outcome and the disaster at LZ Bird, it hurt me too.

I could see that the days here were going to be long tedious and extremely boring, with not being able to move away from the prison of my bed, traction frame, cables, and weights, which bound me. I would most certainly have to work on a system or regimen to cope with this down time. (A term used to indicate none flying time, like when an aircraft is grounded.)

My options for passing the time were few; the first and biggest obstacle being, getting use to total inactivity. When a person is accustomed to continual physical activity, since childhood, it is certainly a major adjustment when suddenly the most vigorous things he can do are to shave, brush his teeth and go to the toilet, the latter being the most strenuous.

Oh, yea my options. I could just lay there and watch everybody else just laying there watching everybody else. I could get the doctor to prescribe some booze and take up serious drinking. Maybe I could get the Spec-six to go out onto the common market, since I finally had some money, and pick up a little Sony TV for me and a cheap record player, stereo of course, and a bunch of records and... Whoa! Now there was a plan. I was too young to get serious about much. I could not get interested in things that required a lot of metal activity, I could not figure out why. Since I was totally inactive, I figured that I might as well get used to inactive things and become expert at them?

I tried reading a book that Captain Clark had loaned me, but I could not even start to get interested in reading it for some darn reason. I guess that I just had to do some more adjusting to my new situation. I had only been laid up for eight or nine days, and I was all ready losing track of time. I was so bored that I longed for anything different to happen, even for the doctor's rounds. Speaking of doctors I had not seen one since the guy who had drilled the K-wire through my leg the day after my arrival. Captain Clark had told me that they normally made daily rounds. Usually they told new patients what to expect, in the way of treatment, and how and where their treatment would take place.

Supper came and went and then the excitement of getting ready for bed, washing, brushing teeth-the whole works, crept up on us. The wash up time became more interesting when a female type nurse, nice looking, arrived with my wash basin and told me that she had come to give me a sponge bath. I was supposed to have had one right after the cast had been removed, but something had prevented my getting one. I was happy to be getting one then. I thought that it would help me to sleep better anyway, as well as something nice to dream about. I thoroughly enjoyed the washing that she gave me. She would lather up the sponge and then gently wash me, a small section at a time. It was unfortunate for me that she made me do some of the washing, but then too much is too much.

It took some time to accustom myself to sleeping flat on my back, at least I must have been getting use to it, I slept pretty well. I only had to call for a urinal twice during the night.

AND SO IT WENT

Breakfast was brought by at about 0800 hours each morning. It seems to always be the same, identical to the first one that I had at that hospital, even down to the hair on the scrambled eggs. When breakfast was over it was time for the bed clothing to be changed, another of the daily chores. An old nurse, a major, came by to change my sheets.

My War - Installment 36

2009-10-26T14:17:00.002-06:00

"Two bucks it’s our men GW. Want to bet on it? Two-to-one. If it’s the NVA, I'll owe you four bucks. OK?"

"C'mon, Sah. Doan kid like dat."

We waited; GW did most of the watching. My eyes cleared a little. The noise was getting closer and GW's tension was evident, and it appeared to be mounting. Finally we could distinguish voices, we could not tell just then, but we hoped that they were speaking English. GW and I were both happy when we could tell that the words were clearly English.

Our rescuers seemed to be more concerned about the NVA than we had been, from the sound of their talk as they approached.

There was a squad or almost a squad of men, my vision was still quite fuzzy. GW told me they had two stretchers with them. They moved up on the east side of the crash site. I, with GW's aid, got up and stood on my right leg. Under my own power I held my left pant leg and hopped over the rubble to the waiting stretcher. I lowered myself down onto the canvas. As soon as I was down they lifted it and almost started to run up the mountain, apparently fearing for their own safety.

My leg was very limp and I had no control over it at all other than to move it by hand and I still had no feeling in it. It kept bouncing off of the stretcher and dragging on the ground. I ordered the men to stop, put the stretcher down and take my boot laces to tie my feet together. This would keep the leg from bouncing off and causing more damage. Then they took off running again. That worked fine and there were no further incidents while moving to the evacuation helicopter, a "D" model Huey, located somewhere up the mountain.

Not only the rescue squad, but the pilots to were anxious to get out of the area. I was quickly slid into the helicopter and off we went, headed for our infirmary at LZ Hammond.

"You want any morphine, Sir?" the corpsman asked me once we were in the air.

"No!! I'm doing fine just now, maybe later. Thanks anyway."

During the flight to the med-evac (Evacuation) pad at LZ Hammond the corpsman kept asking me if I wanted any morphine. I continually assured him that I did not need it, that I felt pretty good. We landed at the med evac pad at LZ Hammond within thirty minutes of our take off. Alpha Troop had been notified and I was met at the infirmary by our Executive Officer and Captain White.

Everything started to move quickly at the med-evac. Medics were working on me, splinting my left leg, jerking and twisting, and giving me a number of unknown shots. Concurrently I was being questioned and debriefed. I found it hard to keep my mind on what I was talking about with all the manipulations that were going on, happily for me; I continued to keep my cool. I turned over my SOI during my debriefing.

In my mind I figured within two or three months as best I'd be back with A Troop, flying Scouts again. How long could a broken leg possibly take to heal?

I was told that my personal effects would be shipped to me after I was set up in a hospital. I was becoming drowsy from one of the many shots that had been given to me. Dumbly and numbly I apologized for losing one of our ships. I then bid farewell to Dave and the EO.

"See you later," I mumbled.

I was flown to the hospital at Qui Nhon and became one of the people stuck, waiting in the hallways. I was not even sure what I was waiting for. I waited in the hallway for what seemed an eternity. Time dragged on and on, images of the day whirled through my drugged consciousness, as I lay on the gurney. I was finally taken into the OR. I kind of expected, since I was headed to the OR, that they were going to operate and either pin my femur, running a rod into the center of the bone from the hip down, or they would put a plate on it, using screws and metal plat to align the break for healing. Heck I'd be back with Alpha sooner that I expected. All these thoughts swirled around in my drowsy mind.

When I awoke in the recovery room I found that I was in plaster from my upper chest to my toes. I was going to be shipped to an Army hospital in Japan early the next morning, or perhaps the following day.

The evening seemed to pass by slowly. I couldn't sleep. Someone came by with books and I selected a science fiction novel, but couldn't get interested enough, just then, to read it. I got some smokes from somebody and lay there most of the night occasionally trying to have a smoke to calm the nervousness I had acquired due to my inactivity. I was a bit depressed, to say the least. My dream had been at least temporarily, I thought, plucked away from me. Well, this kind of thing was just one of the consequences of war, of shooting and being shot at. I'd make the best of it, however it would come out.

The next day passed uneventfully. I picked at my food finding that none of what they had at the hospital came close to what I had been used to getting from Buzz. I would be shipped out in the morning to Japan by way of Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. That seemed like a round about way to get to Japan, but then I was in no hurry since I was not going under my own steam.

We were stacked in a C-141 transport, layer upon layer. From my vantage point on the bottom of the stack and with the limited movement I had, due to the large cast, I couldn't see how many layers there were, but it had to be quite a few. There was very little distance between me and the bottom of the next stretcher, perhaps eight to ten inches at best. I had been awake for over two days straight, except for the time in the OR, and was glad for having not slept because, right at that moment, there was absolutely nothing to do but sleep, so I did. I didn't wake up, not even to take a leak, until they were unloading us at Clark Air Force Base to drive us to the hospital.

We were carried in as if we were so much meat to push around. I was rolled, like a log, onto a bed, one in a long line that was holding the wounded that were in transit. The only items, personal effects, which I had with me, were my wallet, my ID card, and a few pieces of script money, the book which I had picked up at the hospital in Qui Nhon and the almost empty package of Pall Malls. I had stuffed all of the articles into the top of my cast.

I like the others lay lost in my private thoughts all during the afternoon hours. Hardly anyone stirred on the ward, very few medical staff was seen, because in transit patients had all been stabilized before shipment, so there were few chances of any emergency.

The few smokes I had, dwindled and were gone quickly, being bummed by people around me that were also bored. Supper came and I ate for something to do. After supper I noticed a Red Cross Lady moving through the ward with a basket on her arm. When she came close enough I could see that her basket was full of little complimentary packets of four smokes, the type that used to be, standard fare in “C” rations, and given with meals on board the airlines and were also given out as free samples. My unit in Vietnam had been receiving free packages of cigarettes with regularity.

The Red Cross Lady came up to my bed and asked.

"Would you like some cigarettes young fellow?"

Yes, please, why not."

"What kind would you like?"

I knew nothing of brands nor did I really care, this was something free, I thought.

"Anything."

"Here you are. That will be twenty-five cents."

"That will be what?"

"Twenty-five cents, please."

"You can have your smokes lady. I don't need them anyway."

I spent the entire night reading my science fiction book, finishing it as dawn was breaking sending slivers of golden tropical sunlight into the dingy ward.

I was anxious to get moving and get to where ever I was going to end up in Japan. That was the second time the Red Cross had left a bad taste in my mouth that was really lousy.

Breakfast and most of the morning passed by before we were once again loaded into, jeep type, ambulances and trucked, like so much cargo, to an awaiting C-141.

We landed at Tachekawa Air Force Base, right outside of Tokyo, where we were unceremoniously transported to the Base hospital to await our further disposition to individually assigned hospitals. No one had any idea about what hospital they would go to. We would each find out when we got there. There were no choices, but then again it was the only game in town that I was allowed to play just then.

Another sleepless night, in a strange bed; unable to move, or even take a piss unaided. This definitely was not my style, having to call someone so I could take a leak.

The following day I was flown via Huey over the congestion of Tokyo, then the largest city in the world, to the 249th General Hospital. Ah, home at last. I was unloaded and taken to the third floor and placed on a post operative ward. I had been in route, since I was shot down, a total of five days or there about.

My first hospital trauma came shortly after my arrival. A young nurse, cute thing, came up to me with some paper work and started asking questions; the usual stuff, name, rank and serial number. When she asked my rank I told her I was a Warrant Officer, I then immediately started to recite my serial number. She interrupted me.

"Oh, come on private, stop it. This will be part of your permanent medical records."

"I am a Warrant Officer, helicopter pilot."

"I told you to stop fooling around. Now what are you a private or a private first class?"

I was becoming pissed off, but I kept my cool.

"I am a Warrant Officer, and I do not appreciate your questioning me, and doubting my word, in front of these enlisted men.”

I reached into the top of my cast for my wallet. I pulled it out and extracted my Identification Card from its leather pocket. I wiped off the dirt and dust before handing it to the nurse. She looked it over, handed it back, and then turned a bright crimson before quickly leaving. I never saw her again during my months at the 249th General Hospital.

A DUMP IN TIME SAVES NINE

With the five days on the road, plus the day's flying when I got shot down, it had been six days since I had taken a dump. I rang for a corpsman. When he arrived I asked for a bed pan, by this time someone had marked my chart and hung it on the end of the bed, so everyone knew I was an officer.

"Yes, Sir, I’ll be right back."

He came back with a bed pan and some help to maneuver me and my cast onto the stainless steel fixture. I was tilted onto one side so that they would be able to place the pan.

"Sir, I'm afraid they didn't cut the back of your cast out. We'll have to get a plaster saw and make an opening."

"Great, could you do it fast? It has been about six days, and I feel like I am about to explode."

One corpsman went and quickly returned with the oscillating plaster cutting saw. I was unceremoniously rolled over onto my stomach; one man went to work immediately with the saw. In a few minutes I was told that all was well, an adequate opening had been fashioned into the cast. I was ready for action.

The bed pan was lined up with the newly cut passage and I was rolled back over and on top of it. I was no sooner in position than I let loose with a brown torrent that had been under great pressure. There was only one problem. I was or rather the cast was not lined up properly with the bed pan. The hole that they had cut was not lined up with my anus. To top it off the corpsman admitted that the opening appeared to be too narrow.

There was crap everywhere, on the bed, in the cast, in the bed pan and some even managed to find its way on to the floor. I felt extremely embarrasses, as well as sorry for the corpsman that would get stuck with having to clean all this up including me. I was helpless to be of any aid to him. Talk about a shitty job. Anyway, the pressure was off and I slept well that night for a change.

The following morning I felt pretty good. I was getting use to not being able to move anything, but my head, neck, and arms. I ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and jelly. It wasn't bad, other than the hair in the eggs, it was really a good breakfast.

The ward that I was on was not really the post operative ward that I had been told I was going to be placed in. Everyone looked too healthy for it to be a post OP ward. I learned, when my breakfast tray was collected, that, later that morning, I would be moved to the proper ward, across the hall, that being the post OP ward I wondered why I was to be put in a post OP area, it just didn't make any sense to me.

My War - Installment 35

2009-10-22T21:53:00.000-06:00

"Sure thing sweetie."

She started massaging my toes and feet with baby oil, then slowly and tenderly worked her way up my legs kneading my knotted leg muscles into relaxation. I thought to myself, "that for the couple of dollars that it was costing me, I could handle this as a daily ritual. Maybe I could move to Japan when I got out of the service." As I lay there naked, I thought about my R&R, "which would be coming up before too long. Where should I go, Japan, Hong Kong, Bangkok, or Australia to visit relatives in Sidney." I was drawn to thoughts about Japan or Bangkok; it would be one of those two, definitely!

The massage was intoxicating. At that particular moment anybody at all could have come through our small curtained room without my noticing anything but the dancing fingers of my masseuse.

"Hey'a Di wee youa loll ovel ona back, yes?"

"Oh yes "These chicks probably didn't know what they were saying. I could probably have asked her anything and she would just say yes.

I rolled over onto my back trying to not act very embarrassed, she again started at my toes and feet and moved upward. She stopped as she approached my groin and then went to the top of my head and worked downward to each hand and finger and then to my neck and chest and then south again.

I started day dreaming about R&R again, commonly referred to as Rest and Relaxation or Rape and Ruin, and where I would go, what I would do, who I might go with, when sh... she suddenly grasp my penis with a baby oiled hand.

I met Jack in the street in front of the massage parlor. We picked up the few personal items that we had seen at local vendors, and then went to the rendezvous point and waited for Ramirez, while having a coke.

Jack had come down with the clap from his massage parlor visit. I didn't indulge a smart move on my part. While remembering Jack's past agony and trips to the infirmary for his drips he abruptly bolted off his bunk, startling me, and darted for the door.

"Forty," he yelled and was gone.

OPs meeting was totally unenlightening that evening. Just more of the same was in store working west of Granite Rock. The only interesting part of the meeting was when Jack jumped up and ran out yelling Forty-three, to a resounding round of applause from all present.

We spent the remainder of the evening at the Scout tent joking around and playing cards. The shock and horror of Bird had been pushed into the recesses of our minds. The rotting bodies near Bird's old location were the only tangible reminders. Through the dim light and pipe smoke laughter and smiles were shared, friendships were made stronger. I felt part of it all, not just because I could keep my pipe lit by now, but because I actually fit in. We meshed with one another like a smoothly operating gearbox. We all did our jobs and did them well. We relied on one another and knew without a doubt that there was not another Scout that would not willingly risk his life for another Scout or G.I. That's why Scouts had to be tried by fire before they became Scouts, nothing less would do.

I went to sleep that night knowing that I had found my niche in life, the place where I really fit in, where I was appreciated by the others that I worked with. It was a terrific feeling of...I slept content.

DOWN, BUT NOT OUT....I THOUGHT
I had finished my morning rounds and was sitting enjoying coffee in Buzz's Mess tent before breakfast was ready. I was already done with my preflight, just killing time while waiting to eat. I would be flying on Ken this day, he and I would be alternating with the team of Smitty and Jack. We would be working with a friendly ground unit out of Granite Rock. They had been out on a search and destroy mission, working the mountains to the south west of Granite Rock's CP (Command Post), near where I had wiped out the abandon NVA compound.

We finished our first light and then flew a few other short missions before refueling in preparation to relieve Smitty and Jack. We were overlapping our reconnaissance to provide continuous support to the ground unit. Some NVA had been spotted in the region in the preceding few days and we wanted to keep up our surveillance pressure, hoping to make contact and start another battle.

Ken and I were moving in to replace Smitty and Jack, when Jack called over FM radio.

"One-six - one-eight."

"Roger, one-eight - go."

"We saw a beautiful tiger down there, don't let 'em get ya."

"Roger, one-eight. I copy, any other news."

"None yet good luck See you guys later One-eight - out.

"Roger one-eight. One-six over and out."

We took over the recon, first moving in and hovering over the ground unit, identifying ourselves. Ken took off toward the lower slopes of the mountains, while I worked the upper ridges and northern slopes of the upper half of the mountain.

I had been doing reconnaissance on top of most the mountain ridge for thirty-five to forty minutes. GW and I had had perhaps scanned an area some one half to one kilometers away from the ground unit, flying west along the top ridge. Then I began banking, starting a 180 degree turn, moving down the face of the mountain. This maneuver would cause us to move toward our men again. I had finished my turn when unexpectedly, from my left rear, we started receiving automatic weapons fire. The engine had been hit and was, obviously, severely damaged. Oil pressure had quickly dropped to nothing and the engine temperature immediately started to rise. I pressed my intercom button and began speaking loudly, but clearly and calmly I spoke to GW, in the right seat.

"Well GW. It looks like we'll have to put her into the jungle today."

GW had been with me when we had gone down before, but not into the jungle. To my utter surprise GW went berserk. I could hear him yelling even though he had not pressed his intercom button. I had received some small pieces of shrapnel in my side. The way GW was acting, he must have believed that me to be seriously wounded; and about to buy the farm. If that were the case he'd be minced meat anyway and have to bend over and kiss his ass good bye.

GW suddenly lurched over toward me and tried to grab the controls from me, for some damn dumb reason. I had to physically force him away from the controls, while talking to him over the intercom, assuring him that I was OK, that he needed to let me do the flying. And that his actions could hamper me from doing any emergency procedures.

"Hey." I yelled, at the top of my lungs, to get his attention, to try and break his hysteria. "Get hold of yourself GW old boy. I have enough to do without your going bonkers on me and my having to fight with you."

Again I was speaking calmly, just very loudly, which at this time seemed to upset him even more for some reason, although he did move and stay away from the controls.

Every second counted. My flying instincts had taken over automatically, and I had started to initiate emergency procedures for ditching into trees, while mentally and physically wrestling with GW.

At tree top level everything happens quickly, especially when you’re getting shot down. The idea behind the emergency ditching procedure is to zero out the airspeed therefore the groundspeed and then bring the helicopter straight down into the trees with the tail in a downward attitude. Tail first if you will. These procedures is accomplished by lowering collective pitch, pulling back on the cyclic pitch to slow forward motion and then as the tops of the trees are approached to pull cyclic back more and flaring the ship. Just before entry into the foliage the pilot pulls in collective pitch so that entry is as slow as possible.

During the time I was fighting GW I should have called the ground unit that we were working with to tell them what was happening. I just didn't have time for that call with all the hysteria that GW was exhibiting, and with everything else that was going on. I did have time to maneuver close enough to the unit we were working with, that they saw us going down. We were extremely fortunate that they did see us.

At that particular point everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The tree tops slowly came closer. GW's wild movements were drawn out and seemed to take longer to complete. The limbs of the tree tops malingered as they moved to envelop the helicopter. Then, the next thing I knew we were through the trees and had stopped on a pile of the broken down tree limbs and rubble about five feet above the ground. We had made it alive!

I felt fine, I was alive, but my vision was somewhat blurred. I needed to sit for a little while and evaluate our situation. For some reason there seemed to be no hurry since my immediate appraisal indicated, from my cursory glance, that all was well. GW leaped from his open broken door. He hit the ground running and scurried over debris, screaming...

"Let's git outa' heah foor dis hera ma'er fucka' blow up!!"

I kept calm and called to GW, having had a few more moments to look around. Tree limbs lay broken and strewn about. Pieces of broken Plexiglas filled the cockpit. I took a few more moments to further survey the situation. I realized for the first time that my left leg was missing, but I didn't think that I was bleeding or anything. What was wrong?

GW was continuing in his hysteria and wanted to leave the area as fast as possible.

I continued to keep calm and yelled to GW. "Hey GW, could you help me find my leg first."

It had even surprised me how calmly I had said that, having just realized that I could not see or feel my left leg, from the hip down. GW turned to face me, apparently terror stricken, with eyes as big as saucers. He paused and seemed to come to grips with himself. He got control and came back at my bidding.

As the minutes passed my head began to hurt and I noticed that my right arm, lower back, right leg, and neck among other things hurt. My vision was fading to almost nothing, but my left leg still did not hurt at all. I looked around some more blurry eyed. My flight helmet was not on my head it was split in half from impact with the cyclic stick, one piece lay in the cockpit, and the other half was on the ground outside my door. Those helmets were supposed to withstand the force of eight Gs (gravities) of pressure. I had a very large lump across my forehead which, to my touch, felt like the visor on a cap. My shoulder harness must not have worked. It certainly did not engage the way it was supposed to, letting my torso snap forward, causing my head to strike the cyclic.

I began to feel around for my leg, expecting to find a mangled bleeding stump, thinking that I would see the rest of my leg near by or wrapped around the engine or what ever. The quarter inch armor plate behind my back was actually, partially, bent in a curve around my back. I continued to feel around. I located my leg. It had been shoved, by a tree limb, through the metal fire wall behind me and was twisted around the motor somehow, I couldn't see it, but I could feel it with my left hand.

The bubble of the cockpit had been shattered on impact. What appeared to have happened was: that limbs had come through the bubble, hit my legs, snapped my whole body like a whip and then the fork of a limb had grabbed and driven my left leg into and through the metal firewall and into the engine compartment. I asked GW to pull away the bent armor plating. After he had done that I reached out and grabbed onto a broken limb in front of me. I pulled for all I was worth, trying to extract myself from the mangled metal. It took some time and a great deal of effort to begin to loosen my leg and body from the wreckage. My leg had been stretched out, that is the thigh, over the broken femur, like a rubber band about to break. A few more inches of forward movement probably would have torn it off completely.

I continued to yank on the limb in front of me and eventually, I literally popped loose and fell the five feet to the ground, landing on my back. The abrupt landing knocked the wind out of me, and it took a few minutes to recover.

I had flipped while falling to the ground and in my new position I was partially under the broken helicopter, gas was dripping onto my face and into my eyes further hampering my vision. My left leg was laying flat across my chest, diagonally with the toes of my jungle boot pointing toward the sky. I still had no feeling of any kind in my left leg. I lifted it and lowered it to the ground, while untwisting it.

GW aided me in crawling away from the wreckage a few yards. He was exceptionally nervous and believed the enemy would be there to get us at any moment, he was probably right.

"Let's git outa heah, Sah!"

"You go ahead GW. I just want to lay here for a few minutes before I do anything."

I believe GW disliked the idea of being alone worse than the idea of staying with me. I told him to grab our machine gun, some ammo and grenades from the helicopter so we would be able to make a stand if we had too. Just then I didn't much care what happened, I just wanted to lay still and get my eye-sight back.

"This crash just might have ruined our day GW," I commented to him.

GW became a little more composed as time passed. We waited to see who would reach us first, our men or the NVA. I was comfortably propped on a fallen tree at that time, holding my pistol at ready, just in case the enemy got to us first. We would at least go out in a blaze of glory. Forty-five minutes to an hour passed on the ground. In the distance we could hear the faint beginnings of noises; men moving in the jungle.