“Sweet Jesus,” he moaned, waving his hands in front of his face, as though he was trying to erase me.
There was some movement in the tent. I saw the commanding officers of A and B Companies standing by, looking embarrassed. There were a couple of lieutenants hanging around, too, pretending that nothing was happening.
“Sweet Jesus,” Antonovich moaned. “Get this man’s name down. Somebody.” His voice rose. But he wouldn’t look at me. “What’s your name, soldier? Never mind, I know your name. K something, right? Put this man in for a silver star. I want that in the records, in writing. I want it in C Company’s record. Tell me your name again, soldier. Ah, sweet Jesus.” And so on and on, for a while, looking away, blocking me from his sight.
Antonovich’s hysteria never failed him. His face was streaked with it, as though someone on the other team had just smashed him in the face with a football. His eyes were slitted, too, which was unusual for him—either to keep the world out at that moment or himself in.
“Just get me out of here,” I finally said.
I hardly recognized my voice. I could barely find it. I thought I was speaking in normal tones, maybe even a little softer than usual. But I was no less hysterical than Michael Antonovich, and the hysteria must have streaked my face, too. I must have looked wild—wild and filthy and mud-scummed. I realized that I was scaring everyone. I was the unwanted guest. Antonovich and his buddies from A and B Companies were clearly planning something big. They were in the middle of their own drama, I was sure, trying to decide how to salvage the disaster of the horseshoe, and I had interrupted them. Then I discovered that Arch was in the tent, too, cowering silently in a corner. That was how I saw him: cowering. I turned away. I wouldn’t look at him. Arch and I were finished. Let him despair. Antonovich and Archambault. What a team. I knew they wished I would just disappear.
A few other figures came clear. There was some major hanging around, somebody I had never seen before, with his oak leaves pasted to his shoulder as though he was a tree, somebody from battalion or regiment. He was flogging himself on the thigh with a short stout stick, looking angry but not saying a word. Keeping an eye on all of us were two stupid-looking MPs, standing ominously on guard at the entrance to the tent as though they were not going to let anyone escape.
At least I was clean for this audience. I hadn’t pissed my pants. I hadn’t shat myself. I hadn’t run away, either. I had stayed with my buddies (as if there were a choice). I was a winner, all right. I had seen it in Arch’s fish-eyes. I could read it there. I could see it in all the others, too: in Antonovich, in the two captains, in the angry major, the MPs, the whole ragtag staff. A winner. They couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Then I left on my own steam, while the phone began to squawk on Antonovich’s desk.
When I got outside, I finally lighted up—my first smoke since dawn—and almost fainted when I inhaled. The clean young medic who was waiting for me had to hold me up, that’s how dizzy I was. It didn’t last long, only for a few seconds.
I LANDED at the division hospital an hour later, riding in the jeep alongside the guy from the third squad. The driver took a good look at him before we started and rolled his eyes at the medic. “Do your best,” the medic said, shrugging. Then I thanked the medic, and he shrugged a second time. I never saw him again.
On the way, an 88 ladder barrage caught us on the road, and the driver and I, without exchanging a word, left our wounded charge on top of the jeep, wholly exposed, and ran for decent cover at the side of the road. That’s what we did. Later, when the barrage was over, we found our ward just as we had left him, untouched. But I couldn’t look the driver in the eye.
A Catholic chaplain greeted us as we drove into the hospital base by making the sign of the cross over the jeep. When he did that, something broke inside of me and I began to cry. The chaplain said something resonant in Latin and made the sign of the cross again, his hands sweeping gracefully over the three of us this time. I continued to cry and didn’t stop until they stuck a needle in my arm and finally put me to sleep. But first they had to cut my right boot off because my foot was so swollen from the cold and the wet; the left came off easily enough, almost by itself.
EIGHT
Base Hospital
WHEN I woke up the next day, I learned that Bern Keaton and Roger Johnson had both passed through the base hospital an hour or so before I arrived and were already on their way to the UK. It was a thrilling piece of news, just what I needed then—the knowledge that they lived. Bern, I was told, had been shot through the left foot and needed an operation. Johnson had a wound in his upper arm, of the kind, apparently, that I had longed for myself—serious enough but not too serious. The guy from the third squad, with the missing jaw, was dead. He was dead when he arrived—dead, probably, before we left for the base hospital from company headquarters on our open jeep. And that was it, the whole roll call.
So there were three survivors from the third platoon: Bern Keaton, Roger Johnson, and me, our own little cluster of BAR men. It was almost too neat, too contained, as though the three of us, while occupying a certain small triangle on one side of the horseshoe, had been set apart—by luck, geography, God knows what else—as a chosen few. All we were missing was Ira Fedderman, who, as I also learned that morning, was dead with the rest of them—close to forty in all, although I was never able to learn the exact figure—back on those small hills.
I WAS something new in the Yankee Division, a combat survivor, a prime specimen, and I soon discovered that important people at the base hospital were interested in talking to me. The division’s historian wanted to talk to me. The division’s psychiatrist also wanted to talk to me, and in fact was already tailing me around the base while I was having the first exchanges with the historian. Two competitors, clearly. They both lived by hearsay, of course, through other people’s stories, other people’s lives; that was how their professions were defined. And each one wanted something else from me, on his own terms and for his own territory.
HIST.: Tell me again what happened, private.
I was a private first class, not a private, but I didn’t correct him. It would make no difference anyway; it was only a nuance of rank. Instead, I grew stubborn. I told him again what happened, for the second time, becoming more and more excited as I talked. Excited to the point of throwing up at his feet, which humiliated me.
Hist. (politely looking away): Are you sure that’s what happened? Memory plays funny tricks. We hear other stories, you know. Think, now.
I did as he said. I thought for a moment or two, smelling my vomit, and I was still sure. I saw what I saw. I heard what I heard. I told him so stonily. I also had my own questions. Where had he heard other stories? From whom? I knew he was up to something.
Hist. (evasively): I appreciate the strain you’re under, know that, but it seems to me with everything that was going on the other day, as you describe it, you couldn’t possibly recall—
I interrupted him. I did not like the implications of his remark. I did not like the tone, either; I do not take easily to condescension. I was beginning to despise him for that; in my view, it was unworthy of a historian. Already, only an hour into our exchange, I was beginning to recognize in myself a perverse urge to mislead him, was developing a powerful desire to lie—a need, in fact. If he wanted a history that he could call his own, which would enhance the self-esteem of the Yankee Division, I’d give him one. But I told him the truth again, for the third time. “And,” I added politely, “I am not going to tell this story again. Sir.” I underlined the “Sir” and made him blush. He was a captain as well as a historian, and captains do not like to be rebuked by privates first class.
My questioner grew somber. He stroked his furry Brit-style mustache with his thumb, smoothing it out on either side of his upper lip, taking his time. Certainly it was his prerogative. Together we had all the time in the world. Then, finished with his mustache, he lit a cigarette, without offering me one.
I could te
ll that the captain was one of those lonely officers who were without a command. I had seen the type before. No one reported to him; no one ever would. He didn’t give orders; he had no one to give orders to. All he had was a dubious authority, derived from his professional specialty. Somehow I felt that he didn’t have any buddies, either. The spinster type—Mr. Go-It-Alone, intellectually superior. Here at the base hospital, sitting across from me, wetting his thumb to smooth out his mustache again, he looked as though he might be getting ready to cry. I would have liked to see that, the captain crying from a frustration that I had created. His poor history. The poor story he wanted me to tell that would heighten the self-importance of the Yankee Division, the one he knew before he even met me. And then the real one, the one I was trying to tell him, which he had been forced to listen to so many times today. It had to be bitter for him.
“I better clean this mess up,” I said, looking down at my vomit.
“I think that might be wise,” he said, and got up to go.
WE WERE finished for the day. We had had enough of each other. I could feel his relief. Besides, it was time for lunch. At noon, at all mealtimes, I soon discovered, the base came to frantic life, as though each meal might be the last. There was a sense of liberation everywhere, a welcome sociability among the hospital personnel, which I would have liked to share. But I was only an ambulatory patient there. I would soon be on my way to somewhere else. And it was their institution, in which I was just among the first of many interchangeable parts to have arrived. I had to keep reminding myself of that.
Overhead, at the moment, Lonesome Charlie was buzzing us from a rather low altitude. He was always there, every day in good weather, I would learn, observing us from a rickety enemy plane that was trying to keep an eye on what was going on behind the Third Army’s lines. The plane was unarmed, I’m sure, and probably carried only a camera besides Charlie himself. Everybody kidded about Lonesome Charlie and pretended to pay no attention to him, as though they all, doctors and nurses alike, were truly without fear. But everybody, I noticed, always had one eye cocked to the sky when he was overhead. No point, I guess, in being overconfident.
After lunch, it was the psychiatrist’s turn. (They were going to keep me busy, whatever the cost.) The good doctor was another captain without a command. He, too, never gave an order. He was also somber-looking and round-shouldered (perhaps from the weight of the stories that his patients had loaded on him), with thick eyebrows that dominated his face. At the top of his long, thin nose he wore granny specs; and for some reason he made me think of Ira Fedderman. While he was as interested in my narrative as his colleague, he was also just as interested in me. This softened me up, of course. I liked the chance to talk about myself. Answering lots of personal questions about my past life, such as it was, about my personal interests, my failed education, about books I had read, music, playing the piano (but not sex; we never got to that). He was deft at it, too, within his limitations, drawing me out without too much pain so that I talked a lot, probably too much, dramatizing myself, trying to make myself look good—as always.
What was needed first of all, he explained to me, was a diagnosis of my case. Only then could he do his medical duty and decide how to treat me. “You understand that?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said.
But I began to wonder. For the first time, I was being asked to think of myself as a case, rather than as a patient. It seemed to me that there was a crucial difference there, one that I could not quite define but that brought me up sharply as the doctor continued to explain the process we would share. I listened carefully. The gist of it, he explained, was that together we would descend into the stony trenches of memory, in search of the recalcitrant past—his image—while supporting each other in perfect mutual trust.
I supposed so, even though the image sounded stale to me, as though it had been over-rehearsed.
PSYCH.: Son.
Me: Sir?
Psych.: No need for formalities. It’s doctor-patient here.
Me: Yes, sir.
Psych.: Anyway … Please try to describe your feelings again. Don’t be shy about it. I assure you you have my total confidence. This time just try to be a little more specific, try not to use abstract words, like “fine” and “all right.” You understand that, don’t you? It’ll make things easier. And faster. You’ll see. Does that sound okay with you?
Did he really need my agreement? I doubted it. It was probably just his way of talking, a technique. All doctors have one. It’s like a suit of armor for the medical profession. Technique. I tried to describe my feelings to him, always looking for a specific word. It was hard. I was not used to describing my feelings, or even thinking about them. As I’ve said, they gave me the hives. I wandered then, lost in the sticky maze of emotions. The good doctor did not seem to be surprised. He cleared his throat as I stumbled along, and slumped forward toward me. His granny specs slipped down his nose. I could feel his sympathy and his hunger for information. So I tried to make him happy by telling him again what had happened. That seemed the most direct way to my emotions, even though the sound of my own voice, its all-too-familiar pitch and timbre, like the whine of an oboe or some other reedy instrument, was beginning to get on my nerves. I began to talk about the squad, that’s what it always seemed to come down to: about Ira Fedderman especially, about Johnson and his arm wound, about Paul Willis and Barney Barnato, about Rocky and Brewster and Natale. Then I talked about Bern. I grew excited. I wept.
Psych. (in an even tone): Rest a minute, son. Don’t push yourself. We’ve probably done enough for one day. (He checked his watch.) You’re doing fine. Just relax. Try to breathe a little less strenuously. Try not to waste your energy.
He put a hand on my shoulder as I continued to weep. With his palm resting there lightly, I could feel him thinking. There were actual vibrations, of the most tremulous delicacy, passing from the flat of his hand onto the skinny knobs of my shoulder. He was shuffling diagnoses, perhaps, as though they were playing-cards. He was considering alternatives while he quivered with thoughtfulness. Had I suffered shell shock? Combat fatigue? Was I malingering? Even through my excitement, I understood that he was making a judgment, as well as a diagnosis, seeking a name for my case that would explain everything and provide a defining tag for me, one that would shape my future and mark the way I would think about myself for the rest of my life. I understood that clearly and realized its importance. I told myself that I must try to appear less agitated. I must seem to be in control of myself. Not skewed, not crazy. I knew that “crazy” would suit the doctors only too well. I sat up straight, looked attentive. I tried to brighten, to actually cast a glow, while the doctor continued to think about me with a sad expression on his face, his hand in place on my shoulder. I could still feel the vibrations, but fainter now. I had to make him like me. It seemed urgent. In a moment, ever alert, ever cunning, I smiled.
WHAT would his report say? I tried to imagine it:
Psych.: Soldier is nineteen. Five foot eight, 144 pounds. Sandy crew-cut. Blue-eyed. High sensibility. High susceptibility. Suffers chronic eczema, hives, muscle cramps, horniness, and other ailments common to adolescence. Perhaps emotionally immature—somewhat. Sole unwounded survivor of engagement at or near Bézange-la-petite. (I knew the name because the historian had told me, spelling it out carefully. Sometimes it’s called Moncourt Woods.) Normal guilt feelings at survival, combined with powerful frustrated aggression resulting from twelve-hour siege, during which soldier did not fire a single round of ammunition at the enemy. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Well, why not? It was a start, I thought, but only a start, nowhere near enough. What about childish shame at passive behavior? That should be first in any report. Or terror at the idea of returning to the front? There was that, too—excessively. Or even the heavy grit of bitterness, which was beginning to settle inside me like a layer of soot that would never be removed, never erased, down to the last abrasive black particle? That was ther
e, too, along with everything else just beginning to take hold.
Actually, I wanted to speak to my new friend from the warmth of my heart, from its familiar heat, but I felt as though I was freezing to death.
IN A moment, the doctor began again. I had my breathing under control. I had myself under control. I was still smiling, intermittently—but smiling.
Psych.: Tell me about your family.
Me: What does my family have to do with it?
Psych.: Our families have to do with everything.
Me: Well, they don’t have anything to do with this. (My smile vanished.)
Psych.: I’m not pushing you. Just think about it a little.
Me: I don’t want to talk about my family. They’re three thousand miles away. (The thought of my family, ignorant of my state, three thousand miles away, brought tears to my eyes; my newly found poise was ruined.) I don’t want them to know anything about this, either—I mean that. Nobody’s going to write home to them, are they?
Psych.: Not a word. Not from me. (He held up both hands, palms out.) Heaven forbid. Where are you from, anyway?
Me: Baltimore.
Psych.: I was in Baltimore once.
Me: I don’t want anybody to write to my family.
Psych.: Trust me. You have my word. Now tell me, son (a pause while he searched for what he wanted to say), tell me, you love music, so do I. Let’s talk a bit about music. Who is your favorite composer?
My favorite composer? Now I had to think up answers to silly cultural questions. But maybe it was really what I wanted to talk about. I mean, it seemed innocent. Still, I had to ask myself, was there a correct answer here, for which I would get a perfect mark, an A? And, by extension, enhance my record with the good doctor? If there was, I had to find it. I wanted the doctor’s approval.
Before Their Time: A Memoir Page 13