Decoration for Valor

by Joe Cassilly

  But Doctor Demeaning was not listening. He was digging military script out of his pocket. As the other doctor climbed out of the back, he queried, “I wonder where they get cold sodas way out here.”

  I grumbled, “Off supply trucks they ambush.” But no one was paying any attention to me. The two doctors and Nurse Pout were walking up to the soda vendor. Major Nurse and Nurse Reassurance stayed in the jeep. Once they reached the soda vendor, about forty feet away, I could hear them arguing about the price; the little pirate wanted two dollars a bottle. The doctor was insisting on no more than twenty-five cents.

  I felt uneasy. These situations made me feel like a target. I liked being out in the field where the odds of being a target were less because usually the bad guys did not know that the Rangers were there. Then I heard it. You have to have been shot at a few times to recognize the sound of a bullet whining past you. It was followed by a “pop” sound off to the left. I could not place it exactly but I guessed that the shooter was in a tree line that was three to five hundred yards across the rice paddy.

  I slid off the bench onto the floor of the jeep, brought the rifle to my shoulder, and fired short automatic bursts toward the trees. I hoped that by returning fire, the sniper would get rattled and lose his aim. “Shit!” I cursed as I saw my bullets send up little puffs of dust from a dike halfway across the paddy. I dropped the empty clip out and pulled a new one from my pocket and jammed it into the receiver. As I did, I glanced around to see what everyone else was doing. The soda vendor had vanished into his clump of trees. Doctor Demeaning was about to holler at me for scaring the boy when several more bullets came whining in. This time, the sniper had corrected his aim from being too high to being a little too low. The bullets kicked up dirt along the road between the jeep and the doctors. “Sniper!” I screamed. I unloaded the whole clip out across the field. By this time, there was a steady sound of “pops” coming from the tree line. The nurse who had been sitting by me was still sitting on the bench with her mouth hanging open. I reached up, grabbed the neck of her shirt, and jerked her to the floor. The doctors and the other nurse had run into the clump of trees.

  The only one whose brain was still thinking was Major Nurse. She climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled up beside the trees. Meanwhile, I was firing clips of ammo as fast as I could load them into the rifle.

  “Get in,” Major Nurse hollered at the other three who were crouched behind a tree. They ran out and crawled over the side. One of them rolled onto me and knocked me forward. I put out my hand to catch myself and caught my hand on a piece of metal on the floor, which neatly sliced my palm.

  “Get off me you dumb son of a bitch,” I shouted. I grabbed the rifle, thumbed the selector switch to semi-automatic, and kept firing as the Major went through the gears going faster and faster.

  I put the weapon on safe. I rested my forehead on my knee and let the adrenaline rush subside. Someone took a hold of my right wrist and pulled it. I looked up. It was Nurse Reassurance. She had a first-aid kit and wanted to bandage my hand. The pistol grip of the rifle was coated with blood, which was dripping onto the floor. I realized I was cut. She rested my hand on her lap and poured hydrogen peroxide across the cut. She dabbed at it with a gauze pad. I looked around at everyone else. Major Nurse was in the front by herself, jaw clenched, knuckles gripped white on the steering wheel and foot stomping on the accelerator. The doctors and Nurse Pout were sitting on the right bench. I caught Doctor Demeaning’s glance for a second but then he turned and rested his elbows on the back of the right front seat and stared out the windshield.

  I grinned at the nurse on the floor beside me. “I call that the pause that refreshes,” I quipped, trying to lighten things up. She was trying to open a bottle of iodine when I saw her hands start shaking. I took the bottle and unscrewed the cap and handed it back. She tried to get some onto a cotton swab but ended up spilling the whole bottle all over my hand and her uniform. The iodine hit the cut like boiling water. “Shit, fuck, damn!” I jerked the hand back and started blowing on it. The nurse lost her composure and started sobbing. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her against me. “First time getting shot at?” I asked.

  She nodded, “I’ve only been here two weeks.”

  “Congratulations, you’ll probably get a medal,” I said, still trying for a smile. She lifted my arm over her head and put my hand back into her lap and began taping a clean gauze pad to the cut. Then, we got up and sat on the bench. She pulled my hand back to her lap and kept adjusting the bandage. I could feel that her hands were like ice and were still trembling.

  As we neared Long Binh, the other doctor said to me, “They won’t let you bring that rifle onto the base.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The commanding general has a standing order that you can’t carry weapons onto the base.”

  I was incredulous. “What is it with these rear echelon mf’ers? You live in some kind of wonderland down here? Do you think there isn’t a goddamn war going on?”

  “I’m just saying that you will have to leave the rifle with the MPs at the gate.”

  “I ain’t leaving my rifle with nobody.”

  I figured that if I left it with the MPs, they would sell it or lose it. I took my shirt off and took the bandolier off. I handed the bandolier to the nurse beside me. “Put these clips back into this, will you?” I paused. “Please.” Then I took the rifle apart. I unfastened my pants and began to hide the barrel down my pants leg. I glanced at the nurse who had stopped putting the clips into the bandolier. She had noticed that I was not wearing underwear and was watching the barrel sliding into my fly. She looked up and we made eye contact and she started blushing. She looked down and started putting the clips away. I got the barrel hidden, but the bulky bandage on my hand made buttoning my fly difficult. I tried with my left hand, but that was a bad angle.

  She scooted forward on the bench, turned sideways, and buttoned my fly. I looked over and saw the doctor and nurse watch her help me. When she finished, she turned and faced the front of the jeep and stared out. I put the bandolier on and put the stock under my arm under the shirt. I had more difficulty holding the stock in place and buttoning the shirt. Rather than ask for help, I just held the front of the shirt together. I wondered if the soda seller had been a decoy or just smart enough to get the hell out of the way when the shooting started.

  We pulled up to the gate. An MP stepped out of a guardhouse and saluted the major. “Do you have a weapon in the truck?”

  “No,” said the major firmly.

  “Well, ma’am, where did all those come from?” he asked, gesturing toward about one hundred and fifty shell casings strewn over the rear floor.

  “We’ve been out at the firing range today,” said the major, “and we had to clean up our brass.” The MP walked to the back of the jeep and looked under the benches. Then, he suspiciously eyed me; my camouflage fatigues and black beret did not belong to a medical unit.

  “I’m just a patient,” I said holding up the bloodstained bandaged hand.

  The MP knew he was being lied to, but there was no tactful way of questioning the major’s honesty, so he waved us through the gate. The major drove to their hospital area first where she dropped off the others. They all silently moved passed me, not even looking at me. Doctor Demeaning went to the front and started whining about having signed out for the jeep, but the major cut him off with an arched eyebrow.

  She drove me to the other hospital. I got out and laid the stock of the rifle in the back of the jeep. I reached in my pants and pulled out the barrel. I tried to assemble it, but my hand would not work. The major walked back, took the pieces, and snapped them together. “Where are you going for dinner?” she asked.

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  “I’m supposed to go to a cookout at the First Aviation headquarters. You want to go with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you find
your way back to where I dropped them off?” I nodded and reached for the rifle. “No, I better keep this,” she said, sliding it into the back of the jeep. “Let me take these,” she added as she slid my shirt off and then pulled the bandolier over my head. She helped me get my shirt back on and began buttoning it. I was very aware of how close she was standing and the softness of her fingers as they brushed against my chest and stomach.

  I walked to the hospital and spent about fifteen minutes trying to find the right ward. When I got there, they told me that Harry had been shipped to Tahn Son Nhut airbase that afternoon to be sent home. As I walked back, I watched the sun slip below the horizon. I found the jeep where she had parked it and sat in the front seat to wait for her. She came down the hill from the nurses’ quarters wearing a white blouse and a khaki skirt. Her auburn hair was still wet from the shower.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon,” she said with a questioning look.

  “They already shipped my friend. I didn’t have any place else to go.” She started the jeep and, in a few moments, we were at the Aviation battalion. There were about thirty men and half that number of women. I was amazed at the selection of food: steaks, lobsters, three kinds of pie, a bar with everything. These bastards don’t know there’s a war on, I thought as I fished a beer from a tub of ice. While we waited for the baked potatoes to be done, I picked up a guitar, found a thumb pick and tried picking a melody. She recognized the song and started singing “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and I followed her. With the bandage on my hand, I could only strum the song. Her voice was very good; she soared through the high notes and when she finished, I realized that everything had grown still and everyone was watching us.

  “That was great,” I said to her. She pretended not to have heard and picked up a plate to get in the serving line. She arranged for me to sleep in a spare cot at the Aviation battalion. The next morning, I got up and took a hot shower, a really hot shower, the first in three months. “These bastards don’t know there’s a damn war going on,” I said out loud to nobody.

  I hiked over to the hospital. The Major had said that she would take my rifle to work with her. When I found her, she told me that she had lined up a ride for me back to my base on a medivac chopper that was bringing a patient in from Cu Chi. She walked with me to the chopper pad. As we stood watching the chopper come in, she touched my arm. “Thanks for yesterday,” she said.

  “Hey, I’m not sure that I did any more than shoot up a bunch of ammo. You were the one who was cool-headed enough to get us the hell out of there.”

  “I’m still glad that you were there.” She stood on her toes to kiss my cheek. I figured what the hell. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her full on the lips. Her lips parted. My tongue tasted hers. She was cooperative. I haven’t had a kiss like this in too long a time, I thought.

  When I stepped back, she asked, “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Why did you do that? Kiss me.”

  “’Cause I could be killed next week and I didn’t think there was nothing you could do to me for kissing an officer that was worse than that.” I said it loud enough to be heard above the chopper. I turned and walked to the chopper and climbed aboard. I looked over to wave goodbye, but she was already gone.

  19

  Life in the Real World

  When Suzie arrived, it was a learning experience. It was the first car ride, if you did not count the ambulances that I had encountered since that ride with Major Nurse. I had rehearsed it in my mind during the preceding week. I would sit by the back door watching other paraplegics get into their cars. Even so, there was still some experimenting to be done. Did I leave my feet on the footrests and slide my butt into the car or put my feet in first and scoot my butt after them? I decided on one foot in the car and the other on the wheelchair. I never thought to ask her what kind of car she drove; a VW bug swung into the parking lot. I had a bad feeling.

  “Can we take a ride?”

  “Your car, sir.” She held open the passenger door. I rolled up and positioned my feet. Then, I rested the sliding board from the wheelchair to the car. I did not really slide across the board. I just fell sideways and then dragged myself in with my arms.

  Then came the problem of getting the wheelchair into the backseat of a VW bug. I told her how to take the footrests off and she put them on the floor. No matter how she turned or angled the chair, she could not get it into the backseat. I felt useless; all I could do was offer words of encouragement. Finally, she popped the hood and shoved the chair under it. She could not get the hood closed so she tied it shut with a piece of cord. The car looked like a frog that had eaten too large of a bug and could not swallow.

  She slumped into her seat. “Okay, where to?” she gasped, still out of breath.

  “I was hoping that we could go clothes shopping. I need something to wear when I get out of this place,” I answered.

  “Shopping!” Suzie’s voice was enthusiastic, “Honey, honey, honey, have you come to the right woman! Do you still have that wad you had before?”

  “Well, actually, I started getting a check from the VA for about $800 a month, so I opened a bank account and got a credit card.”

  “A credit card!” The way she repeated it made me think that I had revealed a magic incantation. “That’s even better than cash. We’ll have that sucker worn smooth by the time we get finished.” The little car made a throaty roar as it headed into downtown Richmond.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked.

  “To the best department store in Richmond.”

  “Have you been there before?”

  “No, but when it comes to shopping, I have a special sense of direction.” True to her words, within minutes, she was pulling up in front of a building with big display windows showing fashionable clothes, hats, and jewelry. In the next block, she zipped into a parking space left by a big Cadillac pulling away from the curb. Suzie struggled with the chair again and got it back together. Then, she put it on the sidewalk and brought it up to my open door.

  With the wheelchair sitting on the sidewalk, the top of the cushion was a good foot higher than the seat of the car. The sliding board was not going to be of any help. I was going to have to lift myself up. I heaved a sigh. “Here comes the tricky part,” I said. I had a hard time trying to figure out where to put my hands for leverage. I tried a couple of different handholds, but even with my arms fully extended, I could not get my butt to the wheelchair seat. Suzie had an idea.

  “Lift once more,” she said. I took a deep breath and lifted. When I did, she grabbed the waistband of my sweat pants and pulled my rear end up into the chair. In pulling me up, Suzie had pulled the pants halfway to my armpits.

  “Thanks,” I said in a high, squeaky voice. “You wanna pull those pants back down a little?” She was laughing and every time I lifted up so she could tug them down, she started laughing again.

  She started to push the chair toward the store. I tried to turn to talk to her but I could not with the hard plastic collar. So I put on the brakes. “I need to learn to do this and, besides, I need the exercise.” I pushed as far as the intersection but there was no way to get the chair to the street level.

  “Can I try something?” asked Suzie, hesitating to take hold of the chair.

  “Whatta you going to do? Get a running start and jump the whole street?”

  “No, I’m going to back it down.”

  “Okay, give it a try.” She spun the chair around and backed the big rear wheels off of the curb onto the street. Then, she spun me around while keeping the chair up on the rear wheels.

  “AAWK,” I squawked, not feeling very comfortable with this maneuver. She raced us across the street and put the front wheels up on the opposite curb and lifted the back wheels up. She had too much momentum, though, and almost pitched me out of the chair.

  “Hey, you’re pr
etty strong for a skinny woman,” I said.

  She feigned a frown and a pout and said, “I ain’t skinny, I’m wiry,” and she flexed her biceps. I shook my head and smiled. I pushed up to the door. It was a revolving door. Suzie went and explained to a security man that I was in a wheelchair and wanted to come in.

  “No problem,” said the guard. He walked to a regular door beside the revolving door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. It was too narrow to get the chair through. “Wait a second, this revolving door folds up.” The security man struggled and fumbled with a release lever, but it had been so long since anyone had used it that he could not operate it.

  “Look,” he said, “go around the corner. There is a door with a ramp there. I’ll go through the store and let you in.”

  There was a door around the corner, all right. It was a loading dock. The ramp was so steep that when I tried to push up it, the front wheels came off the ground and the chair started to go over backwards. “You sure this place is worth all the trouble?” I blinked at her with the sun behind her head.

  “Aw, sure, I mean, we’re here. Once we get in, it will be fine. Hang on.” She grabbed the handles, backed the chair up a few feet, got a running start, and zipped up the ramp. As we waited, there was a pungent aroma of dirty dumpsters and industrial cleaners. The walls were adorned with various splotches of spray paint, numerous words that you would not say around your mother, and a large profile drawing of the male anatomy. A few grimy windows peered down from the top of the wall. Suzie wrinkled her nose in the foul air and quipped, “This must be the foyer for their most exclusive clients.”

  “Now I know how a black man told to go to the back of the bus felt,” I said starting to get angry. Suddenly, we heard the doors being unlocked inside. The guard pushed them open.

  “Sorry it took me so long, I had to clear a path.” We wound our way between stacks of cardboard boxes, through big double doors, and into “Intimate Apparel.” “When you folks are ready to leave,” said the guard, “I’ll be by the front door and I’ll let you out.”