Six bombers. There were vapor trails and a swirling of fighter planes. Anti-aircraft fire threw up shrapnel. One bomber, hit by an American fighter, exploded. I watched the pieces and flames falling, cheered, shaking my fists in temporary glory at the planes, as did others on deck.
Another bomber flew below its fighter cover and the American planes sweeping toward the anchored ships. Bombs fell, one between the destroyer and our minesweeper, grazing the destroyer, exploding, throwing shrapnel in so many directions. Men ducked. Then I felt the shock. Something hit my leg. I screamed, grabbed, looked down, watching the blood flow. I tried to stand, fell to the deck. “Christ. Fuck.”
I pulled off my belt with my uninjured hand and arm, but could not use it, finally realizing the wound was at or above my thigh, not at my lower leg. I couldn’t move. Finally, the corpsman crawled to me, looked at the wound, shaking his head, grabbing a gauze pad, holding it tightly where the blood flowed. He administered another shot. I tried to move. “Relax, Lieutenant.”
The bombing continued. I could barely hear the corpsman. “Jesus. Why don’t those fuckers stop,” I kept yelling. “STOP.” I tried to raise my head but fell back wearily.
Not too long after, I was transferred to a Hospital ship. A doctor came to me. “Does it hurt?” The first thing I thought was, “You stupid bastard, of course it does.” Instead, I answered softly, “Yes, Sir.” “Don’t worry.” It was obvious my hip was damaged. And probably I may have seen the last of action. At that I smiled despite worrying about my body, how I would be affected, what would happen in the future.
In the operating room, they pinned my hip, arthroscoped my knee, played around with the nerve, I found out later.
The hospital plane left Italy, landing in Boston. From there, we were transferred to the Chelsea Naval Hospital. The navy tried to place us as close to home as possible.
Once settled, however, near other officers, nurses took me to the OR where doctors unpinned my hip, did several more arthroscopies. The entire time I lay in bed, either talking on the phone to family or friends or to nurses and doctors. One medical officer finally told me my leg was permanently damaged because of nerve destruction, that my navy days were over. On that day, depression hit me, thinking of future plans, how family and those I had known would see me. I would not be able to keep up with my friends who made it home after the war. For the rest of my life I saw myself walking with a limp, supported by a cane – a cripple. In fact, when I got back to Maine walking with crutches, a neighbor who saw me asked my mother what happened, exclaiming how sad the wound but how marvelous I survived.
Later, I pushed myself from the bed and managed to shove a chair by a window. The Boston skyline, that always brightened my thoughts, seemed dull in sunlight. It made little difference to me now, almost disappearing from view as I imagined a crippled future. My leg hurt, kept reminding me of a dim future, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. I don’t know how long I sat by the window. The voices of the other officers disappeared as I sank more deeply into self-pity.
Four of us were in a room, the door open so we could see into the hall to the nurses’ station. Usually officers get privacy or perhaps a roommate. I was partly asleep when one of the guys raised his voice. “Hey, Greg,” one of the men called. “Look what’s comin’ in this time. We got it made. Christ, the nurses, all this female stuff around us. We can make out. Look at that one over there standing by the desk. What a beautiful ass. What’s wrong with you? Wake up.” I finally heard. “Shut up, Frank. You’re goddamn lucky we have them to take care of us and in the States too. Just shut up.” I turned toward the window. Perhaps I was something of a rarity. I could not stand hearing lewd remarks about the nurses or just generally about women. I loved them as much as any of the other men, would gladly have one to lay. It had been a long time since Sicily where a woman seemed so easy to get. Yet, I looked at them as human beings who wanted attention as much as did the men, who had sexual or any needs like men.
A while later I listened to one of the other officers talking to a nurse, asking for a date when he got discharged, one telling at another time how beautiful she was, my roommates at one time or another making lewd remarks. One day a nurse they had never seen before entered the three-bed room. The man nearest the door whistled softly when she entered. Some one near the door said, “Hi, Lieutenant.” She glanced at me. “Hello,” she spoke softly, kindly. I took her smile as an invitation or hoped it was. “How about a date, Lieutenant, when I get out of here?” Ignoring me, she walked further along. Another man, watching her, spoke loudly to another patient as she passed, “What a piece of ass she would make.” I lay there upset by his remark while watching her.
The nurse grimaced, commanded the wounded officer to hold his mouth. Obviously, if she could, she would never take care of him. I wanted to say something and turned my head toward the voice. I have a habit of looking at a woman’s face, her eyes, and then at her breasts. But it was her hair, her face and eyes that struck me. I watched her walking toward me. She was fairly tall, perhaps five foot seven, her hair light reddish brown, her eyes green. About her small, straight nose there was a hint of freckles. “Irish,” I told myself.
“How are you, Lieutenant?” as she leaned slightly toward me. Her voice was soft, with almost a musical lilt. She had a slight southern accent that she seemed to be losing, perhaps from having been in Boston for so long. I don’t know. I don’t know where she came from, how long she had been here. I just liked hearing her voice and the way she pronounced her words.
“I’m O.K.” I tried not to stare, but our eyes met just momentarily in the attraction and instant recognition that occurs occasionally between people. In following days, she came by aware of my depression and lingering pain. Eventually, I asked her name.
“Brigit.”
I smiled.
“Do you know who I am?”
“What? No. I don’t. We just really met,” like I was crazy.
“I mean my name. Brigit was a Celtic goddess of doctors, for one thing and could foresee events. I even worry about impending births to look over and protect.” She laughed. “Oh, I’m all that.”
I knew she was kidding, or I thought she was.
She interrupted. “But don’t try to hit on me, Lieutenant. You’d disappoint me,” she continued softly as she began to raise my blanket to look at the wounded area.
There was a kindness and gentleness that enlivened her, so it seemed, each time she came to my bed. One time she came in and said, “Hello, you,” took my hand and just held it, comforting me. Every day, I watched for her, and began forgetting myself as I anticipated her shift, talking to her, feeling her hand on my shoulder. Then, during one of her shifts, I rang for her. I couldn’t urinate and I hurt.
“What’s wrong, Gregory?” She had never used my first name before. I felt a chill in my spine, gazed at her, as she put out her hand toward my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“My bladder, Brigit. I haven’t been able to go.”
She threw back the white blanket and sheet, raised my Johnny. I watched as her hand moved toward me, fascinated by her fingers yet afraid but wanting to feel her touch. She opened the string of my bottoms, pushed them down slightly. I felt her fingers against me gently moving about my lower abdomen.
“It’s distended. You need to get an x-ray, fast.” She hurried from the room, returned, and without waiting, wheeled me herself. A wet plate indicated my bladder was filled with urine. Brigit took me back.
She left, returned with a catheter and other materials she needed. “I’m going to put this in. It will relieve you. She gently pulled down my pajama pants. I watched, felt, as she placed her gloved hand about my penis. How long had it been since a woman had her hand on my cock? She smiled, as she pushed, withdrew the catheter some, then pushed again. “You know, it’s easier with a woman. It just goes directly in.” She said it with a slight smile. I laughed quietly. How I liked the way she held me there despite the momentary discomf
ort. It felt so warm, despite her glove. I wished she’d leave her hand wrapped about it. I imagined her playing with it.
“There.” She made certain the catheter was working well. “You’ll feel better now. Remember. Don’t let anyone give you morphine.” I don’t think she could help herself as she pulled off her glove and put out her hand and lightly touched my face.
~
When they transferred me to a private room, I was aware I’d be in the hospital for a long time. It depressed me more, thinking of home and how distant it seemed, yet by train one could travel there in short hours. There were visitors. My mother came, my father when he could, and also my sister, often accompanying my mother. Then there was that one time my sister came by herself, peeking in the door to see if I was awake. I heard about most of that visit later from Brigit, because my sister barely mentioned what happened.
I was in pain and had been for some time but didn’t want any more medication. Looking up as the door opened, “I don’t want any visitors. Get out!” I didn’t even know who it was, whether a nurse or another visitor. A nurse would have been upon me with one of those commanding looks.
My sister came to the foot of the bed, smiling. “Get the hell out of here.” Her face flushed, she started to speak. “What’s . . .” “Get OUT.” Hurt, shaking, she quickly turned and left, waiting hesitantly in the hall. I know she was crying and I didn’t care. When she looked up, she saw Brigit at the station, unknown to her, just a nurse lieutenant jg.
“Please,” Mary interrupted her.
Brigit answered, “Yes.” Instantly, she saw the redness, the distress on Mary’s face. “What is it?”
“He’s never like that – my brother.”
“Who?”
“Lieutenant Hurwitz. He’s my brother. He was just terrible, shouted at me to get out of the room.” Her eyes teared. “There’s something wrong.”
Brigit left her chair, went to Mary, placed an arm about her. “Don’t worry. I’ll go see what’s wrong. You wait. Sit here. She gently touched my sister’s hand. Brigit left her, hearing her softly crying, perhaps both for herself and for me.
Opening the door, not knowing who it was, I shouted again. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE.” The pain was almost unbearable. It had never been this bad. When I saw Brigit, I began to apologize.
“What’s going on?” Her voice was cold, acerbic. “What’s the reason for that disgusting display, especially for nothing, Lieutenant?” It annoyed me that she didn’t use my first name. “I’m in pain, goddamn it. It’s terrible.”
“Don’t you swear at me.” I started to interrupt, to tell her I wasn’t swearing at her, but she didn’t give me a chance. “Then why didn’t you call? What’s that button by your bedside? How many times have you been told to use it? You also left your sister in tears.” She started to walk away, glanced back at me, “I’ll be right back.” She returned with a pill. “Take this,” she commanded, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Her attitude both annoyed and hurt me.
“You ought to feel better soon,” Brigit icily told me. “You also ought to see your sister and apologize. She drove from Maine by herself on those narrow roads and down that horrible Newburyport Turnpike.” Brigit started to say, “And she’s so . . . .” “Young,” I finished. “She knows how to take care of herself.”
Now Brigit was really angry. “Yes. She’s young. She loves you. And that young woman driving by herself to see YOU. Anything could have happened to her. And to be thrown out of your room, because of your vile temper.” Brigit turned away but not until she said, “I never thought of you with such a temper.”
“I just didn’t WANT to see anyone. I just want this pain to stop. I want to get out of here,” my voice softened. “Please, Brigit.”
She stared at me. The stare faded though as she continued looking at me. What was she thinking? What did she see?
~
His black hair and hazel eyes, the semi-round face, yes, I like those. But his chin. I love it, fairly sharpened with the cleft. Below the sheet and white navy blanket – I’d like to raise them and look at that trim, tall body, 5 foot 11. His thing, oh, I can feel my face getting warm. I wondered what it would look like when I put in that catheter. He is handsome. And his face is always smooth shaven. His nose? Well, it’s a bit large but straight. Admit it, Brigit, you like everything about him and enjoy looking at his body when the blanket is thrown back. Good heavens. That was an unguarded moment when I told Kaye when we were on duty that night I liked that he was not one of those muscle bound officers like some of the others, and their dirty remarks. I hate it. I could slam them; I also told her how I liked his voice. That knowing smile on her face. But I couldn’t help myself and went on and on about his usually kind, often soft but strong voice. I love art and music and imagined he could sing beautifully in a tenor voice. Funny, his sister told me he had done so professionally on the radio before he went to war. He’ll wonder why I’m silent. Stop dreaming. I’d enjoy his arms around me, feeling his fingers wandering up my arms and about me. Stop it. My face is really hot. He sees me blushing. Before he says anything . . .
~
“Let me tell your sister to come back. And you apologize.” She smiled. Each time I saw her, there was that tremor I felt, the gladness throughout my body. Only right now, I wondered how much of it was the medication she had given me.
“O.K. Lieutenant. You win.” I felt a sting in my leg, forced a smile beyond the grimace that she noticed. “Brigit.” She stopped. “Are you mad at me?”
“Yes. I think your treatment of your sister was abominable. Do you know how fortunate you are to be near enough for your family to visit as often as they do? And your sister is lovely, a lady.”
“You’re right.” I answered contritely. I did not like my temper either, disliked treating people poorly, and got angry when I thought of others being maligned improperly or being needlessly hurt. “You see that sea gull on the sill,” I tried to joke. “It was pecking at my leg, thinking it had found a new fish flesh.”
“See your sister, Gregory.”
The medication made me somewhat sleepy. There was a silly smile on my face. “I like you, Brigit.”
She ignored me, opened the door, but I know there was a smile on her face that she tried to hide from me, as she went for my sister.
~
I turned my head toward the window, opening my eyes, rousing myself from the drowsiness and the crappy thoughts that had been bothering me. “Fish, flesh,” I whispered. My pillow was a little damp. I rubbed my neck, then ruffled my hair, grimaced, smiled as I thought of my sister and Brigit. Long ago, I kept telling myself, the naval hospital. Now it was almost no different. I felt as though I were still a cripple, that I had never recovered. In effect, perhaps I never had. I’ve been ill for so long, taken care of by my daughter, occasionally by my wife, Deirdre, also a nurse she hired. Brigit, too, the healer. I let her go. Wonderful daughters. Perhaps they have some of Brigit in them, because we were so close. I want to believe it, Brigit. The goddess in you gave them some of your healing and protective force. And you’ll watch over them when they give birth – if I live to see that. They’ve always been loyal, the way they always seem to be standing between my wife and me. I can feel their admiration and love. They know I feel the same way about them. My wife, always busy, selling her archeological artifacts or always off at some socially important function that will help her business or give her notice. The girls, Melinda and Pamela and then Kaitlin – now gone. They were no longer girls but young women. My God, Kaitlin – dead. Why?
Kaitlin. My God. She wandered away like I used to do. When I heard, I sat there, my heart pounding. The whole family sat, no one saying anything. Suddenly, everyone was crying. Either Pamela or Melinda screamed. My wife had her hand over her mouth, mumbling, weeping, “Why did we do it? Why did we let her go?” And I sat there repeating, “My Kaitlin – five years old.”
I never recovered from the emptiness left by her death
. I often thought of her, expected to see her in some part of the house, even thought of talking to her about her music. Occasionally Melinda and Pamela with tears talked about her, once in awhile my wife. I could not forget. How could any of us?
I’ve got to stop thinking about her. I forced myself to think of other things. Then I smiled. I’m a doctor, and I can’t even take care of myself.
_______________
When I was in high school, somebody asked me what I wanted to do when I went to college. “College? That’s not the end for me. I’m going to medical school.” The guy smiled. “How do you know that?” “I just know.” “Nuts. You’re just doing it or saying it because of your father.” “I am not.” I stopped. “Well, I guess he does influence me, my oldest brother too.”
Then there was the girl who has a summer place by the water in our town. We liked each other, became good friends, dated. As we went along in school, I talked more of what I wanted to become. Then, one night, when we were in our senior year, when I dared to kiss and fondle her, when she seemed glad, she pushed me away, but as I moved toward her again, she relented when I felt her breasts. We kissed, I lay on top of her and rubbed against her - we were on the beach - but then she said, “That’s enough. I mean it.” She suddenly said, “You’ll get married and be a rich doctor.”
“I don’t care whether I’m rich. But I do want a good wife. Don’t you want a good husband?”
“Silly, you know I do.”
“Would you ever think of marrying me?”
Our Seas of Fear and Love Page 2