by T. L. Gould
Back on 2B, Earl’s thirst for relief from the pain and anger was quenched with the welcome quiet of the magical chemicals.
“Fuck the trapeze. Fuck the push-ups. Fuck it all!” Earl Ray said as he slid from his bed into the waiting wheelchair. “It’s all been a big fucking waste of time. Who the fuck are they trying to kid with all this?”
Earl Ray wheeled over to the pile of plastic trash bags stacked next to the large cabinets. As the guy in blue coveralls loaded the trash onto his cart, Earl tossed the squeeze ball into one of the bags.
“Burn that with all the other fucking garbage.”
He returned to the solace of his bed and waited for the drugs to take control. Earl had been given a little extra morphine to quicken the time between the reality of the plank and the dream world of unconsciousness. We had all been to that place many times, and the tell-tale signs were glowing in Earl’s smile. The face turns up in a sly, unprovoked grin. Dreaminess flows into your consciousness. You pass into the soft hazy world between reality and escape. It’s the time to just lay quiet and feel the warm ooze flowing through the brain, try to make it last as long as you can. Push the threshold of the glow farther and farther, the sudden rush of warmth through the entire body, its pleasure so reassuring.
“Hey Ski. This morphine shit is good,” Earl slurred. “I’m almost painless, man. I think my mind is numb. Man, I sure wish Jen would walk in. Put her hands on me, feel her breathe against my face…”
Tiny beads of sweat popped from Earl Ray’s forehead as the morphine reached its euphoric peak.
“Ski, I can feel my legs. They’re back where they should be. I can almost reach up and pull Jen down to me…my face tingles, man. Is it Jen? I think she’s trying to tell me something…”
As the drugs completed their journey through Earl Ray’s mind and body, he surrendered to the resonating warmth and the ever-growing threshold of a brighter glow.
It was a feeling with so much promise.
Life Goes On
FOR THE NEXT few weeks, time drifted slowly and methodically on Ward 2B. Bodies gradually responded to the nurturing and coaxing of the healing staff. Those who had reached full ambulatory status had been transferred to the rehab wards, and the beds on 2B had been shuffled to keep the new arrivals closest to the center of the ward and the nurses’ station. The rearrangement put Ski, Earl Ray, Moose, Bobby Mac, Roger, and me at the south end of the ward, closest to the solarium.
Time not spent in physical therapy or the mess hall was filled with assigned chores and helping those who were now the new bed-ridden. We would refill water pitchers, empty urinals and bedpans, deliver a cold wash rag, change a pillow case, open a milk carton, or give our time in any small way. For Earl Ray, Ski, Moose, Bobby Mac, and Roger, it was a way to give a fellow Marine some comfort and friendship. For me, it was one more way to mask the guilt and to feel like I belonged.
We grew closer together as a group, but we would never grow close as individuals. The social nature of the military demanded transient and temporary friendship, and the instinctive human understanding in each of us dictated that someday, one by one, we would part ways. It was an ever-mindful presence that is borne from the absolute certainty of the temporary nature of military life.
We kept an even greater distance between ourselves and the new arrivals. Most of us would be out of the hospital by the time these guys would even be thinking of a wheelchair. They would form their own transient groups and follow us in time through this endless procession.
A New Pair of Shoes
ANYONE WHO WAS ABLE to move about on crutches or a wheelchair was given a light duty assignment. It was all the small stuff: cleaning and straightening bedside cabinets, steaming out bedpans and urinals, handing out clean pajamas, and just about any odd job to keep us busy.
Big Al was given Master-at-Arms duty of his rehab ward, and Roger George had taken over Big Al’s duty of announcing the new incoming to 2B.
The envelopes bulging with the patients’ medical histories were being delivered on a regular basis.
Roger had jumped at the chance at what he saw was the most prestigious duty assignment on the floor. He didn’t deliver the packets with the same flamboyant and siren-like pronouncements of Big Al. He carried his cargo in a makeshift pouch he had stitched together from old pajamas and strapped it to the side of his wheelchair like a saddlebag. He would enter Ward 2B with the papers of a new arrival secured in the pouch and roll silently to the desk. Every bundle was carried with the reverence and honor of a dignitary. Each packet was placed gently in the center of the nurses’ station as if it were the patient himself.
When the pajama-pouch wasn’t being used for its primary purpose, it was stuffed with the day’s mail and personally delivered by Roger to the patients on Ward 2B. He got to know all of the guys that way; that was Roger.
He put together welcome kits with his own money. He thrilled at the unscheduled trips to the PX next to the mess hall. He would wait until he had a chance to talk with the new patient and then head to the PX with a list and a determination. About an hour later, he would return with the list checked off and a bag full of goodies. Some of the civilians working in the PX caught on to what Roger was doing and took a small collection every pay day to help him out.
On one occasion, a new Marine patient had asked him for a pair of size-nine-and-a-half black dress shoes. Roger brought them up the next day, made sure they had a great spit shine, and placed them in the bottom drawer of the Marine’s bedside cabinet. The Marine had no legs, but Roger didn’t hesitate a second to get him those new shoes.
Water Through a Straw
NONE OF THE WOUNDED BROUGHT to Ward 2B that summer and fall were triple amputees, leaving Earl Ray with the honor and respect bestowed on his sacrifice. But Earl was about to meet the person he would respect more than any other patient on the ward.
A Navy corpsman was brought in with his right leg blown off above the knee, his right arm severely wounded, and deep shrapnel wounds to his right torso and chest areas. The upper right side of his face and his right eye were blown away. He had thirty percent vision out of his left eye. Dr. Donnolly gave him a really good chance that he would get most of his sight back in his one eye.
Earl Ray was the first to welcome him to the ward.
“Anything I can get you, you let me know,” Earl said, blowing a puff of air up. “Can you see me at all?”
“No, not really,” he said as he turned his face downward toward Earl’s voice.
“The name’s Earl Ray Higgins,” he said.
“Michael Bower,” he replied as a small, constant stream of drool fell from the right corner of his mouth. “I could use a drink of water. See anything around here like that?”
Earl rolled up to the beige cabinet and pulled down the empty pitcher. “I’ll be right back.”
He filled the pitcher in the backroom, wheeled back out, and held the water pitcher up to Mike’s face. The paper straw rolled sideways around the mouth of the open pitcher and slid away from Mike’s open lips.
“Shit!” Earl said.
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“Nothing. I can get it,” Earl replied. He squeezed the pitcher between his thighs, set the straw on the countertop, and snapped a lid onto the pitcher. He gripped the pitcher in the fold of his left half arm and slid the straw through the small pour spout with his right hand. Earl Ray smiled at his own pride of being able to do something for somebody else.
“Here, sorry it took so long,” Earl said.
Mike Bower took a long, full swallow through the straw. Earl was about to pull it away but Mike squeezed his lips tight over the straw and shook his head. He took another long drink and pushed the straw from his mouth.
“Thanks.”
“Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right here.”
“You in a wheelchair?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. Looks like it’s going to be that way for a long time.”
“What got you?”
“A bad fucking land mine.”
“Yeah, me too,” Mike said as he winced from the pain in his head. A thick blob of drool pulsed down his chin.
Earl looked at the raw thigh muscle and bone protruding from the upper half of Mike’s leg and allowed his eyes to move up to Mike’s face.
“Guess those things don’t give a shit what they do to a guy, do they?” Earl said.
“No, guess not,” Mike replied.
Earl swung around quickly to the right side of Mike’s bed. The catheter tube and bag were hanging blissfully in their duty.
“Glad to see it didn’t get the most important part,” he said. “A man’s got to have his dick if he doesn’t have anything.”
Mike turned his head toward Earl’s voice. “Got that right,” he said as he reached down and checked between his legs with his left hand.
“Can you get that water again?” Mike Bower asked.
“You got it,” Earl Ray replied.
Moose had joined Earl Ray at Mike’s bedside. “Mike Bower, I’m Moose Johnson. Earl Ray here is Head Motherfucker in Charge. You’re in good hands, so to speak,” he said as turned and eased his big Hoss Cartwright smile toward Earl.
“Did you say Moose?” Mike Bower asked.
“He’s a fat-ass bastard,” Earl Ray said.
Mike Bower winced and forced a hard smile over the drool. “You a Marine, Moose?” he asked.
“Every fucking inch,” Moose said. “Including what I left in ’Nam.”
“Well, I’ve never known a fat-ass Marine,” Mike said as he blew the drool out of his mouth.
“It’s a nickname. Well, not anymore. It’s kind of permanent. Anyway, want to hear a guy get his dick burned?”
Before Mike Bower could answer, Moose yelled down the ward to me.
“Hey Shoff, get a urinal down to Lawson, can you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Is he ready?”
“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” Moose smiled.
I wheeled through the gleaming white and green tile entryway and back onto the ward, a shiny stainless steel urinal sitting upright in my lap, wrapped loosely in a hand towel. The urinal was still extremely hot from holding it under the steam sprayer used for sterilizing bedpans. The towel was keeping it from burning my legs.
I rolled closer to Lance Corporal Dave Lawson’s bed and seized the steaming hot piss pot from its protective blanket.
“Here you go, Lawson. Take a quick piss, and I’ll go empty it so it’s not sitting around stinking up the place.”
“Thanks, Shoff,” Lawson replied as I led him to clutch the lukewarm handle.
“Oooowwweeee! You son of a bitch!” he screamed as he yanked the end of his burning dick away from the lip of the steaming hot urinal.
Moose and some others had quietly made their way to Lawson’s bed area, and the howling laughter could be heard four floors up. It was the best dick burn yet. Doc Miller stood leaning against the desk shaking his head but grinning from ear to ear.
“I can get you some salve for that if you like, Lawson,” Doc said, still grinning.
“Give it to Shoff, and he can rub it on!” Lawson joked.
“You’re not my type, Lawson,” I said, scooting out of target range of the piss pot.
“Don’t worry, Shoff. I’m not going to throw it at you. I have to piss too bad.”
Moose rolled over to Lawson’s bedside. “It’s your job to keep this going once you’re out of that bed. Okay with you?”
“I can hardly wait,” Lawson laughed.
No one on the ward got a pass from a dick burning. Once the catheter came out, he was fair game. “Be glad you’ve got what you’ve got,” Moose would tell them. He wheeled back down to Mike Bower’s bed and gave him a friendly warning.
“What happened?” Bower asked.
“Some day, you’ll know,” Moose said.
Earl Ray just blew air up from the corner of his mouth and wheeled off.
One week later, Michael Bower was transferred up to Ward 4A. They could do more to treat the severe headaches and the damage to the right side of his brain. Maybe some day, he could come back down and enjoy the initiation of a dick burn.
Earl Ray made daily trips to 4A to visit with Mike Bower. Many days, he would go up three and four times.
He never talked about Mike Bower or how the wound to his head was slowly taking away his ability to speak. He never talked about the ultimate amputation of Mike Bower’s right arm. Earl didn’t make those trips to see how Mike was doing. He just wanted to make sure there was a full pitcher of ice water on the Navy corpsman’s nightstand and to make sure he got a good long drink through a straw.
The Puppeteer
PHYSICAL THERAPY WAS TWICE A DAY, every day, and even more for the guys with multiple amputations. The stronger the stump and surrounding muscle, the easier it was going to be to get around and get out. Progress was measured in repetitions and increased weights. Body strength was the ticket home.
My own physical therapy schedule was light at best, and any progress was left pretty much up to me. I was never quite sure if my PT schedule was cut short because I didn’t want to be taking up time on the equipment when other guys needed it more or if the PT staff had made that decision for me. Regardless, I was grateful. My progress was slowed way down, and it was a gift that prolonged the time I got to spend with these guys. I would go down to PT any time Ski was going.
The PT staff had two goals: to develop the muscles of the partial limbs for artificial arms and legs and to develop all other muscle groups to provide the strength for support and mobility. They worked intimately with the prosthetic staff and the carpenters who carved out the temporary limbs from pine wood. They were reverently referred to as the Puppeteers. Their work area, a converted rehab ward, was known as the Puppet Shop.
Ski had been measured for his wooden right half leg, and he asked me to join him on his first trek to the Puppet Shop. It was nestled, almost hidden, between the main hospital and the annex out to the rehab wards. The physical therapy lab adjoined the Puppet Shop, and the entire complex was connected with wide corridors and long, easy sloping ramps.
The Puppet Shop and PT lab were positioned for easy access from both the main hospital and the rehab wards. You came from the main hospital side for your first visit and from the rehab wards for your last. The time in between was measured in the countless revolutions of the chromed spokes of the wheelchairs and the repetitions of arm curls, bench presses, and leg lifts.
The wooden prosthetics made by the Puppeteers were only temporary until the lighter-weight plastic ones could be produced. The body parts from the Puppet Shop were meant to transition the healing wounded from the dependency of Ward 2B to the take-care-of-yourself world of the rehab wards.
From measurement to try-on, a temporary leg could take three to five weeks to complete. The length, height, thickness, weight, and “stump bowl” didn’t have to be precise, but the old German carpenters in the Puppet Shop made certain that every arm and leg fit and felt as close to the real thing as possible.
“You ready to go see your new leg?” I asked Ski.
“A Marine eez always ready,” he smiled.
Ski led the way as we rolled our wheelchairs into the Puppet Shop. It was swimming with a sweet aroma of freshly-cut pine, stirred by the melodic whir of drill press motors and wood lathes. It filled our ears and nostrils like musical perfume. Thick wood shavings lay about the floor and piled high around the machinery like curls cut from Goldilocks. Pine posts were stacked against the wall waiting for their transformation.
Old German craftsmen were toiling about the ten or so machines. We thought we had entered Santa’s workshop—five little elves, hunched over their toy-making machinery, backs bowed from collective decades of leaning into their work, busy crafting one-of-a-kind gifts. They worked with a glad purpose—methodical, precise, and alert to any imperfection in sights or sounds.
“Who you looking for?”
asked one of the old men without looking up, his voice as humming as the motors.
“Not dsure,” Ski replied.
“Just give me your last name,” he said.
“Dyavoshkee.”
“That start with a D or a J?” he asked, his gray-green eyes locked on the piece of rotating wood. “Never mind, we got only one Polish name in here, anyway.”
“Eet’s Roosian!” Ski warned him.
“Be careful how you say that to me, young man. I may just make this leg a little short on the far end,” he said with a quick grin.
“You mean theese eeze mine!” Ski shouted. He stared at the block of wood rotating in the machine.
“Yes, young man, this is your leg,” he smiled, pointing at the square log.
Ski’s eyes volleyed to the quick, rhythmic rolling of the lathe as the old elf guided the angled blade downward and pierced the spinning block of pine. Chips flew wildly into the air and onto the old craftsman’s shirtsleeves.
“Don’t get too close. You may be wearing this before it’s ready,” he said, turning off the machine. “And you won’t look too good wearing it on your head,” he laughed.
The two men looked into each other’s eyes, and a huge, toothless smile came across Ski’s face. He shook the old craftsman’s hand with all his excitement. The old man leaned down toward Ski as if he were examining a rough, uncut pine post.
“This is to be my very last honor,” he almost whispered, his thick silver brows furrowed near Ski’s face.
“Dwhat do you mean?” Ski asked.
“I am getting too old to do this any longer,” he said sadly. “As soon as I am finished with this, I will be staying at home. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, I think. Ah, but it will be an honor for me to do this for you. And this will be my best masterpiece ever!”
Ski turned toward the lathe and the raw block of wood pinned to the machine. The old German elf started the piece of lumber spinning and deftly guided the shiny steel back into the timber. We watched as the curls peeled away and fell to the floor like old skin.