CHAPTER 10
There it was: a long line of two-story brick buildings called Kennedy General Hospital. The Army had prefabricated them during the war, and strung them together with corridors running down the center of each giving the appearance of an endless row of H’s. Into this maze I disappeared without my nurse even bothering to say good-bye. After a few preliminaries, which were mostly paperwork, I found myself bedded down in one of those buildings. The insides were a disappointment, for they were all made mostly of wooden fiberboard. Things must have been rough here in the States during the war.
I didn’t have much of a chance to acquaint myself with any of the fellows before the ward doctor who was a “Little Worry Bird” decided to have me put into a private room. I don’t believe he had ever seen anyone quite so skinny and living before, and I had frightened his caduceus. Before my short stay had ended I did manage to overhear a paradox. The colored boy in the cubicle behind mine was lonely, and asked to be transferred to somewhere where there were more Negroes.
I had come to Memphis to see a chest doctor and have my throat treated, but what I didn’t know was that I was to have an intravenous feeding-happy ward doctor. As soon as he had me cornered in that room he brought in all the glucose, saline, and amogine he could lay his hands on. He didn’t forget the plumbing or needles necessary to go with them. When I asked him what it was all about, he replied, “You need nourishment and fluids.” I balked, “Hell, Doctor, my throat is open enough to drink sugar water and milk. Go away!” But he replied, “You need it.” “Damn it,” I politely added, “Go away.” He meekly retreated; stumbling over the plumbing network as he went.
His nurse was dogmatic, and couldn’t take to my opinions as to the best method for insuring my survival. She was firmly convinced that I was critically ill, and needed drastic treatment whether I wanted it or not. She would wait until I took a nap, and sneak into my room to insert the intravenous needle into one of the veins in my sensationless feet. She managed to do this for a few days until finally I caught her in the process of playing possum. By demonstrating to the chest doctor that I could drink all the sugar water that he wanted me to I convinced him to give her orders to cease and desist.
Before long I found myself making daily visits to every department in the hospital, for examinations that were exact duplicates of the ones that had led to the decision to ship me to Kennedy. When it came to repeating the esophagus scoping I bitched and wanted to know why. I received a very rare but intelligent answer. My examining physician replied, “A good doctor doesn’t accept without doubt the opinion of another doctor.”
While I was having my barium studies repeated under the fluoroscope I asked the X-ray doctor what he saw. He put his hand on my chest and said, “There’s your stricture.” It was at the exact spot of which I had always complained. Then I added, “Why didn’t the doctor in New York see it?” By this time the lights were on, and I could see him beginning to blush for his profession. “Well,” he replied, “different eyes see different things”; he then stormed out of the room.
When all were satisfied that the stricture was caused by an infection a prescription was ordered whereby I was to take penicillin orally. This gave my intravenous-happy nurse a big opportunity. Finding me alone in the room she brought in a syringe filled with the prescribed penicillin, and complete with a needle. She then said, “Open your mouth.” “Lady,” I replied, “what in hell is the Goddamn needle for?” She hesitated, and looked a little bewildered, but before she had a chance to sober up I added, “Take the little worm off, and squirt the penicillin down my throat the way you were told to.” She complied with my adamant request, but by that time I think it dawned on her that when I threw my head back and had my mouth wide open I was in a perfect position to have the needle go right down my throat should it accidentally fall off the syringe as needles sometimes do. All future doses were given without incident.
A real thing then happened; my brother came to visit me. For my brother to travel all those many miles to visit me despite the fact that I was not critically ill was a case for “Believe It or Not”. He was there, and I was stuck with him. It’s not that I dislike my brother, but he had bad habits. One of these traits is not talking to me after traveling half way across the country to visit with me. Upon arriving he did nothing more than come into my room, say hello, sit down, and then pick up a newspaper while remaining completely oblivious of my existence. It was a fortunate thing that day that there was no extra bed in my room, for he surely would have lain down and napped.
An hour or so later and after digesting the best pages of the Memphis Commercial Appeal, and upon finding that I had failed to prepare a library for him he turned to me and said, “How do you feel?” I turned my head over my shoulder and then said, “Oh, pardon me, I thought you were speaking to someone else.” Finally deciding that I was annoyed he shoved his chair to the bedside, if for no other reason than to improve the acoustics.
My brother is the trusting soul type, and after giving me my ration of his precious time he decided to consult with the doctors in whom he had more faith than me. They told him what they had told me and that was that I had to swallow a number four-nylon suture before my treatment could progress. They wanted to push a dilator down my throat, but they didn’t believe that the scoping method was the most practical or the least painful. The idea of swallowing a string which was ten feet long was to have it taken hold of by the peristaltic action of my bowels, and so be in a locked position that if the other end of it, at my mouth, were to be yanked upon, the portion of the string in my esophagus would go taut. Once this had been accomplished the types of dilator which they used could be guided safely around the suture, into my esophagus past the strictured area, and finally into my stomach.
Before I could be introduced to that special form of misery I had to first put the string into my system. The boys in the green and white operating gowns tried all sorts of futile ideas when making their daily visits to my bedside in the hope that they could be perfected enough to pass the string through the strictured area of my esophagus. First came pep talks with “Swallow, Joe”, “Easy, Joe”, “Take a deep breath, Joe”, until I revolted and said to the doctor in my ever polite manner, “Will you please get the hell out of here.” I would give in again, and we would try pushing it down with water, soup, or solids, but the results were always the same. My brother didn’t help any, for all he did was to stand on the sidelines and cheer for the doctors.
I latched onto the arm of Doctor Hughes, the chest surgeon, one day and said, “Doctor, didn’t you say that my esophagus looked like a funnel with the top oversized and the bottom tapering to a closed end?” He nodded his head in assent and said, “So what?” I replied, “Well now it’s my turn to offer suggestions, and your turn to listen. In the past,” I continued, “Levine tubes have been successfully passed down through my nose and into my stomach. Then why can’t it be done directly through my mouth?” He continued to listen. I then added, “That is the solution. Also, let’s put a knick in the tip of the Levine tube that is deep enough to hold the suture. After we slip that string into the knick we’ll tie a knot on its short end. With the two of them together in this position let’s pass the tube into my stomach orally. After we are reasonably sure that everything is in its proper place, wiggle the tube, and perhaps we can shake the string loose into my stomach.”
He broke into a sly smile, and sent his assistant to retrieve a scalpel, which he used to cut the bottom of the Levine tube. He proceeded to make the knick into which he inserted the nylon suture. After two or three tries and by assisting the procedure with the drinking of water, the knot fell freely off the tube and remained in my stomach. It wasn’t long before the peristaltic action of my bowels caught hold of the suture, and began to milk it firmly into my intestines. Twenty-four hours later I found myself on the table in the esophagoscopy room with a weird looking gadget heading down that string straight toward my mouth. It appeared to be like a tapered piece of BX cable followed by a hollow bullet that was screwed to and being pushed by a thin rod along that string into my mouth. Naturally one of the aides was holding back my head as another held down my body into a straight line. There was only one direction in which the so-called “plumber” dilator could go, and that was straight to my stomach. Firstly, the tapered tip and bullet had to be passed through the narrowed section of my esophagus, and that was when I found out why they were holding me down. Despite the local anesthetic and hypodermic that had preceded the treatment I let out a roar to let the world know that the Goddamn thing hurt.
I couldn’t wait for them to yank the damn bullet out, for even though it was a minute-long affair I was positive it was an eternity. When they were finally satisfied that they had inflicted all the misery and pain that they could possibly think of for a human being to endure they pulled it out. That was when I was given a second surprise, for instead of giving me the prompt relief I had hoped for the backward movement of the dilator as it passed through the structured area gave me twice as much pain as the first, and I yelled twice as loudly.
From then on the only thing I could think of was that beautiful bed back on my peaceful ward with no masked doctors with mile long lances pointed at my mouth. After an eternity of misery or a few minutes of actual time I found myself back under the loving folds of my bed blankets. I enjoyed the comfort of my sanctuary for a few minutes when I discovered my insides coming up in the same fashion as they had done the year before. A dozen depressing thoughts passed through my mind as it projected backwards in time, for each new heave filled an emeses basin. When trying to soothe the rawness of my throat by drinking cold water I suddenly found that the string had disappeared. I yelled for the doctor who answered me with an almost intelligent smile, and said, “Don’t worry boy; Nature will take care of it.” He proved himself right, for during my next enema the aide who was assisting me thought he had discovered an undernourished tapeworm. At that stage of the game my brother felt that I was in safe hands, and dropped in to visit with me for a few minutes before saying good-bye.
There was a colored boy in the room next to mine who had kept up the constant wail, “I’se coming Lord.” I’m not the superstitious type, but when the wailing ceased I was prone to believe him. He died of a combination of cancer, tuberculosis, and paraplegia. What better ticket through the nearly gates could be required by the pearly guardsmen or Saint Peter.
One of the friendly philosophers who occasionally dropped into my room to chat with me had a theory that the Negro had been tipped off by Gabriel, and that he wasn’t to dare and move to ward twenty-one with the rest of us. The deceased had decided that it was time to get out in order to avoid the rush and confusion that always accompanies transfers of that type. The doctor killed this theory when he told us of the hidden causes of the death, or on top of it all, the patient had had a venereal disease. You know you can’t get through the pearly gates with that.
The chest ward was in the southern wing of the hospital making the trip through the corridors long enough to lead me to believe that I was going to the deep, deep South. Only two patients beside myself made the ride by litter; strangely enough one just happened to be a lad from the land of the “Bronx cheer”.
After a few hours on the open ward I was given as per usual a private room. The routine frustrations followed, but I finally found myself comfortable enough to fall asleep. I awoke the next morning to find myself staring at a shapely nurse who had just walked into the room. Before I could say good morning, she lifted the pillow that happened to be lying on a chair, and threw it onto the floor. Ignoring the dumb look on my face, or the fact that my mouth was wide open she planted her fanny comfortably on the pillow. She then faced herself towards me while crossing her shapely legs. By this time she took notice of my eyes popping out at her as she lit up a cigarette. With a devil-may-care attitude she then said, “What the hell are you looking at?” “You,” I snorted back. “Well, Sonny” she then added, “I’m your nurse, so when you make up your mind let me know what you want for breakfast.” I should have preferred her, but I settled for a glass of milk, which she brought to me after she finished her cigarette.
A paraplegic was a novelty on that ward which, besides making me the only bed patient, subjected me to all types of visitors. In those days all the paraplegic beds were equipped with “Balkan frames” and “monkey bars”. These prosthetic devices forced me into a daily routine of explaining to each visitor the purpose of each piece of the frame. Their visits were welcome, but the conversations soon became hackneyed.
One of my most frequent visitors was a colored boy named Willy. One evening he dropped into my room, and asked if I would lend him two dollars, so that he could go to town for some fun. “Willy,” I bewilderedly queried, “how in hell are you going to have a good time on only two dollars?” Willy’s answer was short and conceited. “That’s all I needs to get me to Beale Street to meet some broads. Nature and their money will take care of the rest.” I was cornered by his amusing but irrational explanation, and had no choice but to give him the money. I did manage to insert a stipulation with the loan. He had to bring me back a dozen cans of soup, which I then listed for him.
Along around two or three in the morning I awakened to see a shadow trying to make an entrance into the room. I turned on the bed light, and there was Willy dumbfounded by the size and shape of the doorway. Ordinarily Willy wouldn’t have had much trouble overcoming such a simple obstacle, but the aroma of dear old spirits fermenti was permeating the air. Willy started to laugh, for he had proven his boast that he could parlay my two dollars into a good time. My boy was stinko, but somewhere in the peaceful city of Memphis there lay sleeping a young lady who was not only broke, but satisfied.
The problem then was to talk Willy safely past the bed, and through the doorway into the bathroom. Once that was accomplished he placed the bag containing the soup onto the windowsill, and started on his precarious retreat. It turned out to be less of a job than his entrance for his hands were again free, and he could feel his way safely out of the room. I wasn’t to see him again for several days when he was to present to me another request.
The next morning I awakened to find a strange but comely nurse standing in my room with a syringe in her hand that was filled with an ugly brownish fluid. I remarked, “What’s up?” She smiled and replied, “Nothing; just waiting for a friend.” I wanted to make conversation, but was afraid that she was going to say that the contents of that syringe were for me. After a few minutes of dead silence my original nurse walked in with a pillowcase in her hand. Once inside the room she slammed the door, and promptly preceded to tack the pillowcase over the door window making certain that no one who happened to pass by could see what was happening inside my room. Disregarding my presence she then quickly rolled up her left sleeve. As soon as it was above the elbow the nurse whom I didn’t know slapped a tourniquet onto her uncovered arm, and promptly started to wash a small area of the arm with alcohol. She then coldly proceeded to inject the contents of the syringe into my nurse’s vein. Once the injection was completed she immediately pulled off the tourniquet, and they played switch. This time my nurse was the aggressor. By then my curiosity grew stronger, and I blurted out, “May I ask you two what in the hell is going on.” The visiting nurse replied, “Nothing, big boy, nothing,” but my nurse felt more kindly toward me, and gave me this explanation. It seemed that they had been doing the town with two of the ambulatory patients the evening before, and when the dawn came found them at a disadvantage. The boys were on the ward sleeping it off, but the has to go to work that morning and needed a quick panacea. Their cure-all for their hangovers they hoped would be the injections of B vitamins that they were giving to each other. I never had anything against females in a mental sense, but I couldn’t wait for those two to leave my room, for I was certain that somebody was violating a law or two.
The afternoon brought another visitor. At first I thought I was seeing things or going into a state of shock accompanied by hallucinations. Before me stood a full-blooded Japanese man. I was fairly positive that we had won the war against Nippon, out there had always been stories about “tenacious holdouts,” in the hills. He said “Good morning” in perfect English, and then proceeded to introduce himself. I didn’t understand his name then and I don’t now, but he didn’t have the slightest trace of an oriental brogue that we were accustomed to hearing in the movies and on television.
Afraid that I might say something out of place and dangerous I simply replied, “My name is Joe with a Pfc in front of it.” I held back on my handshake because I was not certain as to how much jujitsu he knew. He broke into a smile and said, “Joe, you look kind of bored. If you can get a deck of cards I will show you a few tricks that you can keep yourself busy with until you have practiced them to perfection.” I accepted his offer, but in the back of my mind there was a thought that this fellow was even slicker than the Japanese ambassador who had slipped a mickey to our Secretary of State. As he proceeded with his display of magic he told me more of himself, and I soon found that I was being entertained by one of America’s Nisei troops. He made it a point to visit me quite frequently after that, each time bringing me a trick to view or a gem of witticism for me to hear. As time went by he had given me so much diversion that today I remember none of what he had said or did though I shall always be grateful to him for his contribution toward making my stay on that ward a pleasant one.
Pleasant may sound like a strange adjective for hospital life, but Doctor Hughes went out of his way to see that each patient’s needs were well catered to. He wrote the strangest prescription of all the prescriptions ever written for my esophagus. I was to be given anything that I wanted to eat at anytime of the day or night. There was nothing written into the prescription about keeping it a top secret, or as to the quantities of the food that I was to consume. That was all my soup shopper friend Willy wanted to learn. One night around twelve he walked into my room, and without bothering to polish my apple or crack a scale said, “Joe, you could go for about a dozen steaks now; couldn’t you?” I laughed as he was subtle as a ton of bricks, for I knew that he knew that at that stage of the game the best I could swallow was soft boiled eggs or mashed soups. Keeping in the spirit of what I believed to be a joke I replied, “Certainly, go tell the nurse to order twelve steaks along with two eggs for dessert.”
When the Lieutenant wrote the prescription she specified raw meat, for since we had our own ward kitchen there was no sense in chancing the cooking of GI chefs. Willy was extra kind about this, and even volunteered to pick up the order from the mess hall. The plot was laid out, and what had been a hospital ward was soon turned into a cabaret. There was love, laughter, and the peace that the boys were always after. As for tomorrow they were willing to wait and see. I slowly ingested my soft-boiled eggs which my nurse had so graciously prepared. Reconciling myself to the fact that my condition was bound to keep me out of the competition and frivolities. I threw my head back, buried my face under a pillow, ignored the bedlam, and went to sleep.
The next morning the Major who occupied the room next to mine asked if the noise during the night before had bothered me. With tongue in cheek I replied, “Sir, what noise?” His faced turned a little sour as he then added, “Did you have trouble sleeping last night?” I retorted, “Of course not, Sir, I am an old combat man.” Those were big words for a twenty-year-old Pfc, but despite my youth the Major realizing that his cause was lost did what seemed to be a terribly painful about-face, and staggered out of the room.
That afternoon when Willy had chanced by my door I called to him. I asked him what kind of an individual the Major was, and what was so terribly wrong that he should be in a bitching mood so early in the morning. My opinion of myself soon dropped to penny size, for that is how big I felt when Willy told me that the Major had been shot out of the sky in combat resulting in his legs and chest being all broken up. That was the first time that I had met a “wild blue yonder boy” who had actually been wounded in action. In a war the Infantry suffers seventy percent of all the casualties, and I had been honored by meeting one of the remaining thirty percent. Oh well, c’est la guerre!
Things were moving quite quickly on that ward, and in a month’s time I was to grow to know everyone quite intimately. Intimately proved to be the proper adverb as the next morning soon after the breakfast trays had been collected I found my nurse and I becoming close friends. Without a word of warning she jumped into bed with me. If I had been healthy and had found myself in similar circumstances I would have assumed that I was being given a hint, and acceded to the lady’s wishes. A girl may wish what she will, but she doesn’t wish that strongly in broad daylight in a government hospital. Once in the bed she began to giggle which is not unusual for a lady under those circumstances, and though I didn’t want to I asked; “Lady, what in the hell are you up to now?” Trying to keep from busting her girdle with laughter {I could tell by then that she was wearing one), she replied; “My boy friend’s coming down the hall.” Forgetting all her charms I yelled to her, “You know I can’t walk, let alone run! What are you trying to do; have me murdered?” Still laughing and giggling she replied; “Shush up he’ll be here any minute.” As his head popped into the doorway he looked at us, broke into a broad smile, waved, and said, “Hi Joe”. With that he silently disappeared.
She promptly jumped out of the bed apparently more satisfied with his having seen us together than with his having left. “Bye bye,” she giggled, and scrambled down the hallway in the opposite direction from that which he had taken. Fifteen minutes or so later, and much to my dismay he walked into the room. As he approached my quivering cadaver, he said, “Nice girl. We’re going to be married as soon as possible after we’re discharged.” I tried to smile and replied, “Very nice girl,” hoping all the time that he would either leave or drop dead. I listened all morning to his plans for their future (not having the nerve to interrupt or disagree) when at last lunchtime rolled around, and he meandered off towards the chow hall. I finally felt assured that he meant me no harm.
He wasn’t gone but a few minutes when in again she popped and said, “How do you like my fella? We’re going to be married soon.” “Fine,” I replied, “He told me all about it. That will be, of course, if he doesn’t go to the chair for killing someone in a jealous rage.” She perked up her pretty little nose, and said as she waltzed out of the room, “This is one chick he’ll never have to worry about.”
The evenings were never exciting or amusing, for aside from the decrease of activities of the members of personnel I had to be blessed with a bastard of a Sergeant ward master who had a deep hatred for anyone who could not control his natural functions. “Privy Poss” as I called him made it a point to ignore my call light whenever I happened to put it on, and to advertise his prejudices toward paraplegics at the top of his lungs to make certain that everyone else would know that he had no intention of going into my room.
One of the boys made it a point to find out what my little needs might be. I teased him by saying that he was protecting his banker.
It was during one of those visits that the hefty blonde nurse who was working the evening shift spotted him, and pinned him down (figuratively though; she was built like an Amazon) to do a favor for her. This was the same gal who on the day our ward opened had lifted me with one arm off of my litter, and onto the bed. She was known for her swimming and tennis prowess, but she wanted to do something less strenuous. She assigned to him the job of obtaining a size forty-four combat jacket from supply for her to go hunting in. Ordinarily chiseling something from Uncle Sam in those days was not too much of a task, but he was a size thirty-eight. The next morning he turned up with the answer to the young Lieutenant’s request, and exactly to her specifications. No one ever questioned him as to how it was done, but it was brand new, leading all the nasty minds straight to the gutter. Everyone had to ask as to how he had managed to find a new jacket with bumps in it.
Three weeks had passed, and I was still trying to become accustomed to my biweekly trips to the torture chamber when it was decided that the patients of our ward should again be moved. I didn’t mind this transfer too much, for I was now gulping down solids, leaving me much more interested in the ward menu than in its administration. Why we moved from the first floor to the floor directly above I never did find out, but few reasons would have helped make more sense, for both floors were congruous in construction.
I didn’t even have a chance to dirty the bed when in came a sawed-off civilian who claimed he was a government worker. With a big grin on his face that for years later I was to associate with employees of the Veterans’ Administration he approached me with the idea of my taking a discharge. To prove his point he informed me that the hospital was being taken over by the Veterans’ Administration, and there would be no need for me to worry or bother getting out of bed. He continued by painting a rosy picture of how I would remain a ward of the Government’s for the rest of my life with never a care in the world. He almost had me sold on the idea when he made a faux pas which he thought was a clincher; I was going to receive twenty dollars a month for the rest of my life. Uncle Sam’s Army was paying me over four times as much, so how or why should I settle for the Veterans’ Administration’s dole. I know to all the others I must have sounded insane, but there was always the memory of the Bronx Veterans’ Administration Hospital high on Kingsbridge Hill in the back of my mind. As a youngster in elementary school in the Bronx I had partaken in silver foil collections for cigarette money for those poor disabled veterans on that hill, and now these collections would be by a new generation doing the same for me. In all those years I had never heard anyone say anything good about the Veterans’ Administration medical program, and I wasn’t going to try to he the one to reform it.
It was time that Doctor Hughes and I had a long heart-to-heart talk, and it was thus that I learned that I had been introduced to a new way of life. I didn’t know that it was a form of life at first for I had the mistaken idea that after one or two dilations my esophageal troubles would be over. When I inquired as to why my dream had not come true the doctor decided it was time to square with me. “Joe,” he said, “strictures are strange things. Scarring of the autonomic muscles in the esophagus causes them. When a muscle scars it shrinks. Ordinarily, except for cosmetic reasons it doesn’t bother the person who has one, for he constantly uses his muscles, and the scar does not have a chance to shrink down. The esophagus is not exercised but a few times a day during eating and drinking periods. Because this muscle isn’t always in use the scar has a chance to shrink. We must therefore periodically stretch it to keep the channel open, or it will close down to where it was when you first came here. In plain English we can keep you alive, but we can’t cure you.”
It took about thirty seconds for the full weight of what he had said to sink in, and about just as long for my hopes for the future to die. Sensing the strength of his words he quickly tried to recuperate my spirits by adding that all was not lost, for I could still go home. He added that it didn’t make any difference who treated my throat, and the ear, nose, and throat specialists who had originally examined me in New York could just as easily do it.
That left me with the two-fold problem of calling home and saying that I would soon be back, but to tell Mom not to make any special foods, for I wasn’t too certain that I would be able to swallow them. My dear mother had suffered so much that a little more might possibly break her heart. Seeing that I was sticking to my guns as far as my discharge was concerned the Army graciously gave in, and preparations were made to transfer me back to Halloran General Hospital where I was to return in triumph.
Young Doctor Blood had heard of my coming, and made himself the first to greet me. When I saw him reaching his hands down toward the litter to shake mine I expected a loquacious speech full of apologies for the stupid and costly boners he and his unholy medicine men had committed on my body. Being the conceited ape he had always been he quickly routed my party back to my ward with his highness leading the way.
As he reached the doorway he bellowed, “Attention” to a mob that could not respond, and then stepped aside as my litter bearers locked stepped into the ward where I could be seen by all. The responding roar would have deafened no one, but a few who were able to recognize my prone face were kind enough to inquire in anxious tone, “How’s your throat? Can you swallow now?” My procession wound up to be nothing more than a tour of the ward, for my bed had been filled during my absence, and I was given the usual stepchild treatment. A few beds had been set up in the recreation ward, and naturally one had been saved for me. The doctors avoided me, as I was known for my intolerant tongue, but those boys who were able to rolled over in their chairs to my bedside to enjoy the novel sight of my swallowing. Some were fascinated by what they had seen and said nothing: others uttered the usual “Gung Ho!” of congratulations. It was wonderful, but a joker or two added in a hackneyed fashion that I’d better take it slowly, or else I’d find myself too obese to fit in a wheelchair.
Like all other side shows with the coming days my Hooper rating drooped, and I soon found myself keeping a lonely vigil over a plate of spaghetti. I shouldn’t have fretted too much, for as far as Hooper ratings were concerned I had just followed some very stiff competition. The boys informed me that during my stay in Memphis I had missed seeing Roy Rogers and his horse Trigger parade through the ward.
It turned out that being placed in that side ward became a lucky coincidence. One day when I happened to call to a civilian stranger who by no means of chance was passing through to bring me some water; he obliged without a question. Upon his return from the fountain with my loaded pitcher I puckered up my lips, and asked him who he was. He introduced himself as the Veterans’ Administration’s insurance representative, but I was not immediately impressed. We turned to other matters for our source of conversation. We didn’t agree on anything, and he soon started to leave parting with the question, “Did you receive a new policy form yet?” In a most brilliant manner I replied, “What policy, what forms?” Stunned, he stopped, and uttered back, “You converted your insurance policy, didn’t you?” With that I reached out for his shoulder, yanked him closer to my voice, and said, “Keep talking.” He assured me that if I would let go of his arm he would sit down and explain the mystery to me. After an hour of rapt attention I found out that GI’s who were in my condition were entitled to civilian-type insurance such as twenty-payment life etc. It sounded expensive, and I was afraid to ask for it. I was embarrassed when I found out that I had been so ill that I had failed to ask for something free. I quickly made amends for my error. To keep repeating that my luck was consistently lousy would be trite conversation, but running true to form the throat doctor who was supposed to take care of me when I returned to Halloran had been discharged leaving my throat to again close up. Perhaps it was the penalty for showing off my eating prowess, but as the days went by I found myself chewing longer and more carefully as I swallowed to prevent gagging.
General Ent who was a little older and wiser than the rest of us felt that it was time that we took stock of what our future was to be. He knew better than any of us youngsters the attitude of the public towards the disabled after the shooting ceased. He was adamant, and insisted that we organize into a group that would protect the needs of our rare type of disability. It was because of his insistence that the “Paralyzed Veterans of America” was formed. It was my fortune, or perhaps my misfortune to be in on the first meeting of the association at Halloran General Hospital. I can always boast if anyone should care to listen that I am a charter member.
As the misery of my esophagus increased so did my temper. Eventually I was informed that Walter Reed was the nearest hospital that could cater to my needs, and the doctors at Halloran would have me transferred there as soon as possible. Naturally, “as soon as possible” is a long time in the United States Army, and I was back on the old merry-go-round.
As I was parked in the recreation ward I was up on all the latest activities, but there was one that confused me terribly during the middle of a restless night. I started hearing noises at where I knew the pool table was, and upon turning on my bed light discovered a colored boy trying to get around it. He went left; and then right, but he could never seem to reach its ends. I would have shouted suggestions to him, but upon recognizing who he was, and remembering his famous affection for whiskey, I lay back to enjoy the spectacle. Realizing that his obstacle was too wide to circumnavigate he tried to climb over it. Though he was one of the one in a million who recovered slightly from a spinal cord injury his legs were still too weak to carry him over the top. Carefully analyzing his problem by surveying the field he decided in the best military fashion to crawl under the damn thing. Once completing the trip he rose up and made a mad stumbling dash for the “john” which I guess was the reason he was out of his bed during the middle of the night. When I heard the latrine door slam shut I was satisfied that he accomplished his mission, and laughed myself to sleep. That boy didn’t know it, but he had cured my insomnia.