My War - Installment 51

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking about Nervous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BIG APPLE REVISITED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One pretty girl stood up and held up six fingers.

"OK, six words," her team yelled.

She held up one finger.

"First word," everyone chortled.

She spread out her hands.

"Spread?"

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

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

"Third word," they called out.

A hand went to her ear.

"Sounds like, come on show us."

She pointed at her breast.

"Sounds like tits." Everybody started to laugh.

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

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

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

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

I raised my hand and indicated five with my fingers.

"Five words?"

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

"First word."

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

"First word is toes."

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

"Oh."

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

"Toe, first word is toe!"

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

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

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

My War - Installment 50

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

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

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

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

"Yes sa, Sarg."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In unison "No Ma'am!"

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

"Yes please."

"May I take your order?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who did you two say was uncouth?"

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

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

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

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

CUTIN' UP AGAIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you feel that, Sam?"

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

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

"Can you feel that?"

"Yes!!"

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

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

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

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

I could feel them pulling and cutting.

"You all right, Sam," asked Bill.

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

He released the tourniquet from my arm.

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

"Great, Bill."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yep."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My War - Installment 49

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

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

LIGHT DUTY

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

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

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

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

"Will Knots? What's dat?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUT AND AROUND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GENERAL ORDERS 3 June 1967
NUMBER 2922



AWARD OF THE AIR MEDAL FOR HEROISM



1. TC 320. The following AWARD is announced.



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

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

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

FOR THE COMMANDER:

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


DANIEL B. PLYLER
LTC, AGC
Adjutant General


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My War - Installment 48

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which side of your rump?"

"Take your pick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What am I on, I responded?"

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

"Hit with you!?"

"Yea, man, do some dope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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