My War - Installment 52

"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.