The Outside Lands

by Hannah Kohler

  Tom squeezed the gripper in his left hand, his arm gristling with the repetition.

  “Three days later, the patient was flown to Japan, where the right leg was removed by a right-hip disarticulation and the wounds to the right hand were sutured. During the operation, the patient underwent cardiac arrest, and the surgeons resuscitated him. Post-operation, the patient was ventilated and administered fluids, as well as ephedrine, dopamine, norepinephrine, and antibiotics. The patient was closely monitored and, once stabilized, was flown back to the United States and admitted to the Veterans Affairs Medical Center, before transferring to UCSF. Which brings us here.”

  It was not how he remembered it. The slam of heat, the force jackhammering his skeleton, splitting him. Then the long wait, watching the fear in other people’s eyes, his body light and cold. No sound, but sifts and turns of light and color; his body lifting up and up until the light pulled to a grain of black; and the thought, that death was a small thing after all.

  But then, the pain. Like something alive, murdering him from the inside. There was no soul, there was only the body: piss and blood and shit, bagged and separated by layers of cells thinner than newspaper. A series of rooms, unsure if he was awake or asleep, his body a site for dredging, excavation, extraction. His recall of those days confused; the first clear moment when he woke from the surgery, the hard prank of feeling the agony in his right leg but seeing nothing there.

  Tom’s arm cramped.

  “Thank you—?”

  “Bremmer.”

  “Thank you, Bremmer.” The chief approached the bed. “The patient has responded positively to treatment,” he said. “The wounds to the leg and hand are healing well. The tympanic membranes are repaired, without identifiable hearing loss. And the burns to the genitalia have healed almost completely.” The chief paused, a nice, fat period, to make sure everybody on the ward heard. Tom’s eyes went to Girl Medic, scared and excited as a cherry. She caught his gaze and looked away, and he wanted to smack the blush off her face.

  “The partial-thickness burns to the abdomen have healed, but with scarring. And we have successfully performed skin grafts to the second-degree burns to the chest,” continued the chief. “There is significant neuropathy as a result of the brachial plexus injury, and we’re working to improve this with physical therapy.” Tom tried to jerk his right arm, tried to ambush it into remembering what to do; but it lay gimpy at his side. “But our area of principal concern now is the burn damage to the face.”

  The chief’s hand closed in. In spite of himself, Tom shut his eyes. The dressing lifted, but the pressure still bore down on his face like a vise.

  “As you can see,” said the chief, “this livid coloring tends to white, then brown as the burn extends through the entire dermis above the jaw. Note the leathery texture of the skin, the spots of charring. No sensation here, but plenty here where the burn only reaches the papillary dermis.” A judder of pain (“That’s good; it’s good it hurts,” murmured the chief); Tom squeezed the gripper hard. The chief lifted his fingers away. “This area, extending above the right jaw, requires a skin graft.

  “Because of the damage to the patient’s face, we’ll harvest the graft from the supraclavicular skin on the left clavicle. We’ve attempted the surgery twice so far but have had to postpone due to signs of infection at the graft site. The patient completed a course of antibiotics yesterday, and the surgery has been rescheduled for tomorrow. Swabs of the area are being taken and plated daily to ensure we’re clear to go ahead.” The chief replaced the dressing. Tom opened his eyes.

  “Gentlemen,” said the chief. Girl Medic’s face didn’t move. “The patient came here because we’re the best plastic surgery center on the West Coast.” He put his hands on his hips. “Let’s not let him down.”

  Wash time.

  “How are you today, Captain?”

  Donna helped him to sit, her body his crutch as he lowered himself into the wheelchair: a girl handling a six-foot-four Marine.

  “They taking care of you today?” she said, her sweet, serious face close to his as she released the brake of the chair.

  “Let’s just say I’m happy you’re here.”

  Her nose wrinkled in a smile. “Good to see you too, sir.” She straightened and placed a palm on his shoulder. “There. All set?”

  He nodded. She pushed him along the ward, past Burned Feet and Firecracker Kid. As they neared the swing doors, a noise escaped Tom’s mouth, but she was already slowing, stopping at the window that looked over the bay, and finding herself some busywork at the desk. It was a fine day, and the bridge drew the light. A tugboat sailed in the bay, its horn sounding gorgeously, like a bugle. Tom remembered his commissioning ceremony, the feel of the gloves on his hands, the sound of the brass band, pride building like pressure in his chest. He sensed Donna standing behind him, and kept still, wanting to stretch the moment.

  “Sir,” she whispered.

  “Okay.”

  She wheeled him through the swing doors; along the corridor, past the curious and the uninterested; through another set of doors, and into the wet heat of the shower room. Tom exhaled, tried to empty himself of sensation.

  She spoke softly, crouching in front of him. Eased off his hospital gown, lifted his dressings, her face level with his crotch, his stump lifting at his thigh. He kept his eyes blind, ignored her reassurances, her careful hands; tried to unsee the traumas and genitals of the men being washed in the other stalls. She wheeled him into their stall. Squeezed soap over his arms, his shoulders, his chest and stomach, over his crotch, his stump, down his leg. Unhooked the showerhead, turned on the faucet, and rinsed his skin, up, down, careful to avoid his face, sweating under the dressing.

  She shut off the water. It was almost over. He closed his eyes, and felt himself being wheeled out. Heard her shake open the towel—the approach like an embrace, like a mother taking an infant—and humiliation locked his throat. He felt the pat of cotton, and lifted his left arm and swatted her away, hard. She brought her face to his and gave him a warning look.

  “Don’t fight me,” she said.

  She pressed him with the towel and handled him back into the gown, then pushed him out of the room and back along the corridor. The gown gripped his skin. He listened to the squeak of the rear left wheel, the squelch of the soles of her shoes. She was moving faster than normal. He wanted her to slow down.

  “I hear they’re operating tomorrow, sir,” she said as they reached the swing doors. Her voice had the sealed-up quality she used with the others.

  “That’s right. Tomorrow morning.”

  She propped the door open with her hip and wheeled him in with one hand. “That’s something, huh?”

  “It is.”

  They traveled the ward, past Car Wreck and Factory Accident. He saw his bed, straightened and turned over, ready to ingest him for another day, and jerked his hand. She slowed.

  “When they’re done, I’ll be the handsomest guy here,” he said.

  She crouched to engage the brake.

  “Is that right?” She smelled clean and unused—she belonged out there, with the fresh air and uncomplicated views. She helped him to stand. He lingered over the sensation of towering over her.

  “You better snap me up while you have the chance.”

  She let him have a smile, and eased him backward, supporting his weight as he lay. She called to the nurse, “Patient needs new dressings.”

  The nurse approached and set about bandaging and taping him with cold fingers. Donna walked away.

  A brunette was staring through the glass of the swing doors. She had a clear, clever face—a real beauty. Her eyes roamed the ward, looking for somebody. She was a social worker, or a shrink; a physical therapist; maybe the chief’s secretary. He watched, thought he caught her eye; but a nurse busied past him, and when he had his line of sight again, she was gone.

  “No physical therapy today.”

  “The doctor said every day.”


  “You have your surgery tomorrow.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “You need to rest.”

  “I’ve been resting for weeks. My muscles are deteriorating to shit.”

  “There’s no need to curse.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “One day won’t make a difference.”

  “It’s about discipline. Discipline and consistency, being systematic.”

  “With respect, sir, this isn’t the Army—”

  “The Army doesn’t know the first damn thing about discipline—”

  “This is a Hospital . . . be sensible . . . Duty . . . by the protocols . . . very serious . . . Respect . . . aggressive . . . follow orders . . . the rules . . . Lay down and Rest.”

  He crawled from sleep to find a shadow standing over him. A shock of hardware on the left breast, four glimmers on each shoulder, and a face with the fierceness of a battle-tested leader. God was a general in the United States Marine Corps.

  “Good views up here, Captain.”

  “General?” Tom tried to hoist himself to sit, but his head reeled.

  “At ease,” said the general. He held up his hand. “Stay right there. How are you doing, Captain?”

  “Recovering well, General.”

  “Good. Good.” The general’s face loomed, his hair glowing white. “I know your father. Instructed him at Quantico.”

  “General?”

  “He’s darn proud of you, Captain.”

  “General.”

  The general’s body wavered. “Talks about you a great deal. About your service. Says he wasn’t half the Marine you are, and, Lord, he was a hell of a Marine.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “Seems civilian life’s treating him well,” said the general. “Getting fat on it.”

  Tom tried to rig a smile.

  “He come by much?” The general was hardening into focus, the lapels and pockets of his service uniform making perfect angles, green on green.

  “Some.” Tom’s voice broke adolescently over the word.

  The general eyed him. “It’s been a while, huh, Captain?”

  Tom didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “He’s an old-fashioned man. This will be difficult for him, Captain.”

  A cynical noise escaped Tom’s mouth. The general talked over it. “My nephew was hurt in Chu Lai, back in ’66. Stepped on an MD-82.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, General.”

  “You have to remain disciplined,” said the general. “Keep hold of your courage.”

  “Yes, General. I will, General.”

  The general nodded and straightened himself, as though he’d completed his business. “Well,” he said. “I didn’t just come here to make conversation, Captain.”

  “No, General.”

  The general took something from his pocket. He leaned over Tom, his badges swinging. “In the name of the president of the United States of America, I proudly present you with the Purple Heart.” He pressed a box into Tom’s left hand.

  Tom tried to speak, but his words came out mauled.

  “What is it, Captain?” Tom heard the beginnings of impatience.

  “Why, General?”

  “Why? I would say that’s obvious, Captain.”

  Tom lowered his voice. “But it wasn’t the enemy, General.”

  “You were wounded in action,” said the general, refusing to drop his voice in line with Tom’s. “You were an excellent Marine. This”—he waved his hand—“is less than you deserve. Courage is courage, wherever it’s found.”

  “I don’t deserve a Purple Heart, General.”

  “I’m ordering you to take it,” said the general. His hands made fists at his sides.

  Tom swallowed. He covered the box with his palm. “Yes, General,” he said.

  “Good,” said the general. “Captain.” Tom watched him disappear through the swing doors. He put the box on top of his locker and turned his face into the pillow.

  Tom / 1965

  He leans against the FDC, watching the men play softball. Feels a moment of breeze, then the heat again, close and heavy. The light’s going, and the game scatters. He wipes the sweat from his face and walks to his tent.

  “All squared away, Lieutenant?” says Captain Roach as he strides to his hooch.

  “Sir,” he says, standing to attention.

  The captain waves him on. “Get some rest,” he says. “Looks quiet out there. Recon patrol just came back; they think the enemy’s moved on.”

  “Sir.”

  He pulls off his boots and lies on his rack, listens to the bugs, the distant boom of guns. Sleep comes like a punch to the head.

  An explosion of gunfire, and the ground shakes. He scrambles up, hears the tent rip, feels a bullet fwit by. Yanks on his flak jacket, can’t find his helmet. Scrabbles under his rack for it, alarm climbing; and there it is, solid in his fingers, thank Christ. Jams it on his head, shells tearing canvas. Pulls his pistol belt around his waist, his fingers clumsy. Shoves his feet into his boots, grabs his rifle, and ducks out of the tent.

  Head down, knees crouched. The air rips past him—noise like rocks falling. The moon throws down gray; he drives his legs faster, watching for trips, holes. Along the LZ, past Lieutenant Colbert’s hooch—torn, smoking—a pull like elastic at his back, slowing him. But the sounds close in—M16s thudding, carbines popping, someone yelling (Sergeant Bryce?)—and he continues on, ears straining for clues, and underneath the mass of noise, he hears the unmistakable chukk of an RPG.

  He drops to the ground. The air slaps out of his body. Flames strike up eighty, one hundred meters away. He checks for landmarks. They got the aid station. He tries to drag himself to his feet, but fear has climbed onto his back. He raises his head, heavy on his neck, and peers into the dark.

  They’re close, along the northeast perimeter: small groups of shadows, spaced along the inside of the wire. And, strewn across the space between, the half-curled bodies of Marines. Panic lights him up. He breathes hard, clenches his fists to screw up the courage they taught in Basics. The M16s are easing, and the sappers hear it too: they scatter into the fire-base, strings of shadows, two groups heading east, one southeast, one south.

  The artillery batteries—the fire direction center—the command post.

  A moment of indecision. A mortar bursts fifty meters away, throwing dust. The guns or the radio. He sets his rifle to automatic, pulls the butt tight to his chest, stretches the barrel forward, like he’s trying to pull the thing apart, lines his finger along the barrel, tracks the target, and fires.

  The sapper leading the team south startles and folds. Tom keeps his finger tight on the trigger, follows the line, takes the next sapper. Tom squints. A shape rises from the ground; a pause, and it shakes on his gunfire. A mortar trembles the earth. Tom watches the dark, hears his breath, loud and fast. He scrabbles to his feet.

  A snap of gunfire, stinging his legs. He runs till he sees it, the command post, thirty meters away. A figure steps from the shadows. Time slows, and Tom knows what’s going to happen, knows he’s the audience as the sapper turns and raises his arm.

  Flash, crack.

  Tom lifts his head. The sapper has vanished, the command post is blown, and paper glides through the air.

  Someone is screaming.

  Tom sprints, through smoke and dust, over burned ground, and he’s inside the torn bunker. Fire crackles. He sees Captain Roach, legs turned wrong, chest shiny with blood; and the thought scrolls loud and dumb in his head: He’s dead. A white arm lies on the ground and, three meters away, burrowing his body into the earth, Sergeant Louie, screaming.

  Tom turns from Louie, finds the radio. Pushes the sergeant’s cries down low, twists the dials. Nothing. His blood thumps. Heat presses his cheek, and the flames grow loud. He bangs the radio with his fist; it bleeds static.

  “LZ Bear, this is FSB Lilley, over.”

  Silence. Tom counts Louie’s screams. One, two, th
ree.

  A wet, clicking sound, and Tom’s body hums.

  “LZ Bear, receiving, over.”

  “We are under ground attack, repeat, we are under ground attack. Estimate thirty VC inside the firebase. We are also taking incoming at this time, over.”

  “Can we get a direction on the incoming, over.”

  Tom peers through the rip in the bunker, sees only smoke. “I can’t get a position. Request artillery fire sixty meters out, three hundred and sixty degrees around our position, over.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Also request illumination and gunships, over.”

  “Any casualties, over?”

  “Affirmative. Will require medical evacuation, over.”

  “Copy. Stand by.”

  The flames make a wall. He turns his face away, hears the zip of ammunition exploding in the fire.

  “Likely to lose radio contact, over.”

  The zips come faster, bullets flying red. Louie buries his mouth in the rubble. Tom drags the sergeant over his shoulder, and runs.

  Dawn comes, and they count the bodies. Twenty-one dead VC, but there had been more: there are smears of blood where the enemy dragged the bodies away. He takes his camera and clicks a picture, then another; he wants to use up the film so he can send it to his father. Firman and Webb lift the bodies of the dead Marines to a waiting cargo truck, and he stows the camera in his pocket. Six Americans, Captain Roach and Lieutenant Colbert among them. He crosses himself, and walks away. He sits on a sandbag, watches the medevac sink to collect the last wounded. Lieutenant Moore squats before him, palms his shoulders. “You’ll get a Silver Star for this,” he says.

  That night, fear is lying with him. He’s on his rack, flak jacket zipped, helmet strapped, boots laced. The moon’s big enough that he can count the rips in his tent. Seventy-six. He thinks of Captain Roach, who seemed unbeatable, like all his superiors, and his stomach bleeds with fear. A gun fires in the distance, and his body startles.