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.