“And,” he said, “if you can’t pay for it, I can. And will. There’s also a new law called the GI Bill that will help you with tuition.”
I’d done what most officers had done with their paychecks when deploying to the Western Pacific: take a few bucks in cash every two weeks, but leave the rest “on the books’” until you came home, and designate who would get the money if you did not come home. I really had no idea of how much money I had on the books, but it could certainly pay for my first year. I explained that to Dad.
“So, give it a shot,” he said. “And if it doesn’t fly, you still have M.D. after your name. Even with millions of GIs coming home from the war, there won’t be millions of docs. You can get a job anywhere.”
Like Omaha, I’d thought, and then laughed silently at myself.
But now, here I was, a year later and waiting to learn my fate. My father’s plan had worked. I’d been readmitted to the surgical residency program right where I’d left off, and during the past few months, I’d been doing stuff with the fifth- and sixth-year guys, and mostly waiting for the decision-makers to put me up for the general boards.
The conference room’s doors opened and in came the director and two other doctors from the faculty. Looks like a board to me, I thought as I stood up to greet them. The director was not a surgeon—he was a Ph.D. medical research academic who specialized in a new field dealing with overcoming infections in hospitals in general and surgeries in particular. He had a reputation for being brilliant but also a positive and encouraging influence within the department. He led off after we were all seated.
“Doctor Andersen, I think we have a solution for your unique case,” he began. “And it is indeed unique, more than I or the faculty imagined when we first looked into it. I know it’s taken a year, but we felt we had some digging to do.”
“I understand, sir,” I said.
“We first contacted the Navy Bureau of Medicine and Surgery in Washington to establish your bona fides as a Navy doctor. They confirmed your naval service in the Pacific and that you were honorably discharged last year in Pearl Harbor, having been wounded in action at Leyte Gulf. That was relatively easy to do—they have an entire division that certifies service for returning doctors and nurses.
“Determining exactly what you had been doing out there was more difficult, since, from your service record, you’d been assigned to a squadron of PT boats, as opposed to an established medical facility.”
“Well,” I said, “I was assigned to the medical group that landed with the Marines on Guadalcanal in August of forty-two. Then I was transferred to the naval command at Tulagi, and after that, to the MTB squadron.”
“I see,” he said. “But there are no records of that, unfortunately. The Navy said that was not uncommon, especially for service members who were in the Guadalcanal campaign.”
I nodded. “Battleships will do that,” I said, remembering that nothing had been left of the medical admin tent after that bombardment. I had to explain that to the director.
“Yes, well, be that as it may, the certification division said there should be records of your fitness reports. You were a Navy doctor but also a naval officer, and that there should be some fitness reports on file at the Bureau of Naval Personnel. So that was our next stop.”
I vaguely remembered that everybody got an annual fitness report, although I’d never seen mine. Supposedly, whether or not you got promoted in the Navy depended on what those fitness reports said. A promotion board would meet in secret annually, read those reports, and then decide whether or not you got the next stripe.
“When we contacted the personnel bureau, they told us, after a month, that they did have two fitreps, as they called them, but they couldn’t release them to anyone, since they were now part of a promotion board’s record of deliberations, which stayed secret. They said that you ought to have been given copies of the reports. Were you?”
“No, sir,” I replied. “And if I had, they’d be somewhere on the sea bottom near an island called Rendova, in the Solomons.”
“Right,” he said. “But my assistant who handled your case asked the bureau if they could release the names of the officers who had signed those fitness reports. We would then see if we could track them down and interview them. Two weeks later, we got a letter back, naming two officers who were lieutenant commanders at the time, one Peter Cushing, and the other, Stede Rackham, both line officers. So, then we asked the bureau if we could write a letter to each of those officers. They said no, but that we could write a letter to the bureau, asking them to forward our request to the individuals concerned.”
“Now I can see why this took a year,” I said.
The director smiled. “By this time, my assistant considered this a personal mission. And, she convinced her contact at the Bureau of Medicine that he should, too. Long story short, we got answers from both of them, and also some more names to contact in reference to your actions as a surgeon. An admiral named Chisholm, a captain named Horace Benson, a retired captain with a mouthful of first names, surname Garr, all three Navy doctors, and another captain named”—he looked back down at his notes—“Willem VanPiet, a line officer. Are these names all familiar?”
“Yes, sir, they are. That’s amazing.”
“I’ll tell you what’s amazing,” the director said. “All of these names were found because Commander Rackham put you in for some medals: a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, and a Silver Star.”
“What?”
“Yes, he did, and as part of that process, he had to list the names of other officers and chief petty officers who knew you, as references for when the award recommendations were considered. They told us that the awards and decorations board is backlogged, but someone will be contacting you to set up an awards ceremony.”
I could only shake my head. A Purple Heart I could understand, but the others?
“Now then,” he continued. “Everyone we interviewed gave you highly commendatory grades. By the way, that’s when we learned that we should have been addressing you as Superman all this time you’ve been back with us.”
My face turned red. But everyone? Including Garr? I asked the director to confirm that. He nodded and went through a file of letters he’d brought in with him.
“Yes,” he said. “Doctor Garr reported that when he got back to Tripler Hospital after being badly wounded at, um, some place called Munda, his surgeons told him that he’d been extremely lucky to get the surgical care he did out there. He admitted that he had had a big problem with you, a third-year resident, doing the things you’d been doing in various surgeries, but that he had to finally admit that he was wrong. And, he says at the bottom of his letter, quote: ‘Tell him I said that. He probably won’t believe it, but tell him anyway.’ End quote.”
I was too surprised to say anything. The director gave me a moment and then continued.
“So, what are we going to do? First, we’ll recommend that you are qualified to take your boards for certification as a general surgeon and for a medical license. As soon as you’re ready. Our faculty agrees. You might think that a waste of time, but the law is the law.
“Second, there’s a new medical field gathering steam across the country, at least at the premier med schools. It’s called emergency shock-trauma, and it has led to some of the teaching hospitals setting up actual shock-trauma centers within the hospital, with doctors trained to handle automobile accidents, plane crashes, building collapses, hunting accidents, criminal shootings, and the like. We’re setting one up here at Duke Hospital. We think you’d be the perfect candidate to stand it up for the university.”
I was stunned. Ready for boards? Yes. Becoming a department head at the new Duke Hospital? Wow.
“Do you have any questions for us, Doctor?” the director asked, after giving me a moment to digest all this.
“No, sir,” I replied. “Just a bit overwhelmed, I guess.”
“I can just imagine, but we sincerely hope you’ll take on th
at job. You are singularly qualified. One last administrative note. Commander Rackham wants to talk to you, urgently. Something to do with the medals, I think, but he said there was a personal matter, too.”
He handed me a piece of paper with Bluto’s current duty station, which was in Norfolk, Virginia, and a base phone number for his ship. Still in a daze, I thanked him. Then I went home to tell my folks the good news. Dad, who I now suspected had called in some favors at Duke Medical, was delighted. I told him I needed to go down to Norfolk. He said he’d drive me—it was only about three hours. He’d go fishing, and I could take as much time as I liked with Bluto.
THIRTY-FOUR
We met up at the Officers Club on the Norfolk naval operating base. Some of the wartime security measures were still in effect, so I couldn’t actually go down to the piers. He caused a bit of a stir when he came into the bar, which wasn’t surprising since he was by far the biggest customer. He looked great, and he’d put some of his bulk back on. We each got a beer and then retired to a corner table.
“You first,” I said. “What happened to the hooligans after I left?”
“After you abandoned us, you mean, right?” he grumped but with a twinkle in his eyes. “Just like some damn girl with her knickers in a knot. Just walked away. Disgraceful, that’s what it was.”
“Okay, okay, so I abandoned you,” I said. “Terribly sorry, but this”—I pointed to my halo—“had a bearing on that.”
He pretended to examine my scar. “I know twenty women who’d find that sexy, there, Doc. Think of the stories you could tell, and some of them even true.”
“The hooligans?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, we got back to Tacloban in the afternoon. The big show was already over, but we’d lost three tin cans and two escort carriers, plus the light carrier Princeton. Bull Halsey may have seen those bastards turn around after his air strikes, but if you can turn around once, you can do it again, and that’s just what the monkeys did. Showed up the next morning with a six-pack of battlewagons and all their friends. Started shooting eight-, fourteen-, sixteen-, even eighteen-inch shells at all those baby flattops covering the invasion force ashore on Leyte.”
“Jee-zus,” I said. “How did anyone survive that?”
He polished off his beer and signaled for another round. “Thing was, we had about a dozen of those little jeep carriers out there. They each carried maybe twelve, fourteen planes. Their admiral thought Halsey had battleships covering the San Bernardino Strait. Halsey and all his battleships were a hundred miles up north, beating up on some Jap carriers. So, our admiral told all his jeeps to head east—and to launch everything they had. They got some hundred or so planes into the air who then started to bomb and strafe the big Jap ships. Jap admiral panicked, turned around, hauled ass back through the San Bernardino Strait. Nobody really knows why, but they did, and it was all over. We spent the next three days looking for survivors out there in the waters off Samar. Whole Goddamned thing was just unbelievable.”
“Wow,” was all I could muster.
“Then we went to Okinawa,” he said, his face sobering. “Talk about a bloodbath. Do you know that the Navy lost more people than the Army and Marine divisions ashore combined?”
“That was the kamikaze attacks, right?”
“Yes, it was,” he said. He shuddered. “Anybody who was at Okinawa doesn’t wanna talk about it. Period. Me included. But when the A-bombs finished the bastards off and the Navy finally stood down the MTBs, I got orders to be the CO of a tin can based here in Norfolk. You may now address me as captain.”
I grinned. “Yes, sir, Captain.” I almost saluted. “And the hooligans?”
“Scattered to the winds,” he said. “After Okinawa, they kept some of them to rescue downed pilots, but the mission was pretty much over for us. Most of the squadrons were disbanded. The Jap fleet had been destroyed, and everybody knew it was just a matter of time before the war wrapped up. Our academy officers were offered new duty stations; the reservists were allowed to go home. The gunners all went to carriers because of the kamikaze problem; the enginemen were mostly sent to amphibs with all their boats and the prospect of invading Japan, itself. Thank God for those A-bombs, is all I can say. Everybody was afraid to even think about invading the home islands after Okinawa.”
“Well, I wanted to thank you for the good words when the Duke Medical School called. It helped a lot. And medals? I never expected that.”
“You earned them, Doc,” he said. “Sorry they even had to ask, but there’s a lotta jungle bunnies and sailors alive today because of you, despite all those bureaucrats.”
Then he reached into a pocket and produced an envelope that had been folded in half. “This came for you a coupl’a weeks ago. Addressed to me, but the sealed letter inside was addressed to you. From some commander.” He passed it over.
Some commander? I looked at the return address. The letter and the envelope were made of that tissue paper–thin material that we’d all had to use during the war for mail in order to save weight on the transport planes going back to the States. Bluto was giving me an arch look. “Of course, I didn’t read it,” he said. “But it might be important.”
Might be? The return address was in Omaha, Nebraska.
“Yeah, it might,” I said, trying not to tear up. With any luck at all I had another trip to make.
“Found out something when I got back,” he said. “You call the telephone company operator, give them a name and address? They can get you a phone number. So many people trying to reconnect after this Goddamned war. Bunch’a lost souls out there in America these days, you know?”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “I think I’m one.”
“Na-a-h,” he said. “You? Never. You’re Goddamned Superman.” Then he leaned forward. “Now, then, Superman. Go find her. As Tiny Tim would say, that’s a damn order.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Three days later I was sitting in the lobby of the Magnolia Hotel in Omaha. I’d checked in earlier in the day after a long, overnight train ride from Washington, D.C., taken a nap, and was now waiting for Helen Carpenter. I was fortifying myself with a whiskey in hand.
I hadn’t opened her letter until I got back to Durham after seeing Bluto. My parents were away at a conference, so I had the house to myself. A glass of Scotch in hand, I’d sat down by the fireplace and opened it. I felt like a coward for not opening it sooner, but I was afraid she’d be telling me all about her new husband. I smiled when I saw the salutation. Dear Superman.
She went on: I hope you got back to the States safely, and that all is well with you. I made it as far as Okinawa, which was Hell on wheels, but you’ve probably heard all about that. That island, and the war itself, are things I’m trying to forget, if that’s humanly possible. I’ve developed a taste for whiskey to dampen the nightmares.
I’m writing to tell you that I probably won’t be coming to see you in Durham. I’ve just completed a long and painful convalescence, having lost the bottom half of my left arm during the Okinawa campaign. I wish I could tell you that it was a heroic battlefield injury, but, sadly, it wasn’t. I cut my left hand in the OR one night, which resulted in a ghastly infection they simply couldn’t control. Gangrene loomed, so they amputated my hand. And then my lower arm. So now you can call me Stumpy.
I wish I had better news. I’d love to correspond; there’s no one to talk to unless they’d been out there, and anyone who’d been there, well, you know. Do reply. Fondly, Helen.
I’d sent her a telegram that night, telling her I was coming out. And now, here I was.
She came into the lobby wearing an overcoat; the weather out on the Great Plains was colder than what we were seeing in North Carolina. She stopped, looked around, then spied me sitting over in a corner of the lounge. As she approached, I thought she looked a bit older, and, truth be told, sadder. There were shades of gray along her temples. I stood up as she approached the table. I offered to take off her coat, but she seemed reluctant.
“I don’t want to,” she said. “I hate what I look like.”
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “You’re damaged goods now, is that it? Lemme see: maimed, disabled, crippled, and therefore totally unattractive, right? Tell me this: if I kiss you right now, then will you take the damned coat off?”
That brought waterworks. I pulled her in close to me, hugged her as hard as I could, and then I did kiss her. At first, it was a one-way deal, but then she responded and kissed me back like she meant it. A guy walking past muttered—“hey, you guys, get a room, awready.” That broke the spell, but broke it with a laugh. We sat down. She still hadn’t removed her coat.
“I’ve got a proposition,” I said. “How’s about a date? A real date, not just some midnight dalliance in a wartime OR. This place has a good dining room. Let me take you out to dinner. Talk. Catch up. I’ve got lots to tell you, and it’s all good.”
“Sounds wonderful,” she said quietly. “I’d like that very much.”
“Then we’ll go upstairs,” I said.
“You mean that?” she said.
“I absolutely mean it, Helen. I’ve really missed you. But you’ll have to take the damned coat off, if only because I want to see what one of those mere mortal surgeons did to your arm-bone.”
“Well, then,” she said. Her face was a study in longing, which is when I realized she was really hurting, emotionally and maybe even physically. She looked smaller, and vulnerable. And beautiful, I thought.
“Let’s take this thing slowly,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with women, and I do not want to screw this up.”
She nodded. “But not too slowly, Superman,” she said. “I’m not as fragile as I look.”
“And that’s why we gotta find you a hook,” I said. “A nice, stainless-steel hook. And you’re gonna have to learn how to say A-a-a-r-r. I mean, if you’re gonna go back to nursing, especially as the Head Dragon, think what all those lamby-pie nurses will think when they see you coming down the hallway?”
The Hooligans Page 28