CHAPTER 2

It was morning when I emerged from that canvas sanctuary, and for the second time I was really worried. There it was broad daylight with no clouds overhead, and my uniformed saviors had parked me right in the open terrain to wait for the ambulance. The aides by their lazy motions didn’t seem to share my misgivings about enemy observers, but still trying to be a stalwart GI kept my thoughts to myself.
When the ambulance finally shoved off it contained but the driver and myself. In an attempt to relieve my anxiety I asked the driver to accelerate a bit which he promptly refused to do saying that the speed would hurt me. I was positive that he was either lying or didn’t know what the word meant, for I was doubly positive that there was nothing wrong with me save the pain from a few pieces of shrapnel. “Hell,” I kept rationalizing, “I’m a combat infantryman; I can take it.” To enlarge upon my unhappiness they had racked me on the floor. I couldn’t even enjoy the view as I had been left with no direct vision through the ambulance windows. I suppose some people would call that an Army snafu, or an ordinary T. S. The ride droned on, but the boredom couldn’t put me to sleep. I had to settle with my oblique view of the sky as my source of amusement.
Suddenly the sky changed to rock; anxiously I asked the driver what was happening. He was annoyed, but answered that we were in the mountains approaching Luxemburg City. Instantly I came to life; things were looking up. I remembered that the boys on the “line” mentioned that “ice cream” could be had in Luxemburg City. There was my chance for a real American treat three thousand miles from home. As we rolled into the city I put the question to the driver. He must have been an enemy agent, for who else could refuse such a thought; especially since I had offered to buy. This time he had a prepared set of excuses about rules, regulations, and the court-martial that awaited him if he were caught on an unofficial mission. Realizing that there was nothing I could do to sway this “chicken” driver I went back to enjoying my rocky view which now had improved, for there was an occasional mansion jutting between the strong peaks. There was a story told among the troops on the line that this town had no income taxes. Somewhere there must have been a gimmick, for what little I could see of it could only be described by the best adjectives used by publicity agents and real estate brokers.
At long last my ambulance started to do something different. We backed up. Uncle Sam’s “Meat Wagon” stopped, and its doors opened wide; Hallelujah; I was in heaven, for before me were the pearly gates. Well, maybe not pearly, but they certainly looked as if they were as they must have cost a fortune.
Two over six-foot Negro American medics grabbed my litter, and carried me to a palatial doorway whose doors opened wide as in I went. I was positive that I was dead and had reached heaven, for from out of nowhere came beautiful music. In front of me was a huge marble lobby, and to the left was an even more beautifully decorated spiral staircase with a center landing and balcony. The curtains were open, and the celestial rays were pouring in. My two gargantuan aides, sensing the beat of the music, began to dance our way up the staircase. Now who at this point would have been stupid enough to argue against the fact that I had died and gone to heaven? That is where the story should have stopped, for at least it would have had a happy ending.
Oh well! Onward and upward we went until I found myself on a GI cot in a room with a dozen other beaten up dogfaces. It was too beautiful to imagine, so I again played it safely and kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t silent very long when a GI approached me, and told me to get up as he wanted to show me something that would really interest me. It was an effort to convince him that I couldn’t walk. He said that I had to get up to see this as he was positive that the molding in the next room was made of gold, and that I should let nothing keep me from standing up to view it.
Realizing that I needed documentary proof for my disbeliever I called the nurse over (I was positive that she was a nurse for she was a female American, and she wasn’t wearing trousers) who authenticated my case to this bewildered “character”. There was my chance to find out what was going on, and I asked her if she could furnish me with a rational explanation for all that was happening to me. Her reply was curtly American, “You mean you don’t know that you are in the Grand Duchesse of Luxemburg’s palace?” My “Heaven” had turned into a temporary transit hospital. It didn’t take long before they started me on regularly scheduled thermometer readings and penicillin shots.
The night passed as they all do, and in the morning I asked the WAC aide (a new American innovation) to turn down the steam. She smiled and said, “We ain’t got no steam,” and hustled off. I was irritated by what I considered to be a poor comedienne. I again called to the nurse who was more patient; she stopped to allay my fears by retaking my pulse and temperature. Upon leaving she remarked that she would send a doctor up to see me.
About three or four in the afternoon two aides came in, and started loading me onto a litter. I objected saying that I was supposed to be seen by the doctor. The boys replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll see him in ‘Gay Paree’, and down, out, and into a waiting ambulance I went. It was cold in the March air, but it didn’t seem to bother me as much as it did the aides. Then it dawned on me; I wasn’t overheated by any steam heat. I was running a fever from an infection. That WAC hadn’t been as facetious as I had thought. There was nothing left to do but ride it out until the next base. I don’t know which factory town in Michigan made that ambulance, but since it brought me safely to the airport it was my guess that it was made according to regulations. They didn’t give me much of a chance to lie there in the open and worry about the planes that were taking off just over my head when they shoved me into a tent, which was to serve as a heated waiting room.
It’s one thing to wait, but it was another to suffer and wait, and suffer I did. The wild blue yonder boys had set up a cooking stove with the slumgullion that they were hashing up giving off a volatile odor that should more scientifically be classified as a stench. To put themselves into a mood for their poison they had a radio from whence there blasted the worst tripe that the “GI” network could nauseate. The combination made it a simple matter for my temper to boil along with my temperature. Right there and than I swore vengeance on the high-octane consumers despite the fact that two of my best friends were in the Air Force.
The CID must have telepathed my plot, for a few hours later I was hustled onto a C47 and secreted off to an airport near Paris with about twenty-five other discontents each of whom had a different opinion as to what part of France we had seen when flying at an altitude of four thousand feet.
When informed that we had landed at Paris my eyes lit up, and I shouted “Oh boy at last we’re gonna see Paree.” To be certain that the scenery wouldn’t be obscured I asked the medics as they were loading us into the waiting ambulances to rack me highly, so that I would have a direct view out of my ambulance window. Well; I saw Paris all right. It was even Paris in the springtime; the only catch was that it was the arsehole end of it. This type of misery you can see all over the world.
Our destination was a transit hospital; at least that is what it was called. In reality it was a schoolhouse that had been taken over by the American Army under reverse lend lease like so many buildings during the war. It wasn’t even the schoolhouse that “Ike” was going to use to accept the surrender of the German Armies in.
The first thing that happened, and it always will, was that when I was being interviewed for the records one of the French employees overheard me saying that I was from New York. As soon as the nurse left she threw one standard question at me; “Do you know my sister? She lives on I don’t remember the street; she’s a real good-looking girl, and likes to do anything for the boys in the service. On second thought she lives in Chicago. I can’t remember it’s been so many years.” With that she wandered off trying to remember her sister’s location by counting on her fingers out loud. Oh, well, there went my sex life as per usual I thought.
When the evening rolled around the nurse came in, and announced with great glee that we were going to have a sixteen-millimeter talking movie. This was a shot in the arm to everyone’s morale; to everyone save me. The week before I was hurt I had sneaked over during a twelve-hour break to watch “Up in Mabel’s Room” when it was shown to the second Battalion. I had no choice but to sneak in, for we had but twelve hours to go before we jumped off in the attack. I was positive that there wasn’t enough time to spare, and that the picture would never be brought to my Battalion. Everyone must pay $3; crimes, and the authorities were penalizing me without knowing it.
Despite it being only my second viewing old man monotony soon crept into my midget haven. This time monotony was on Morpheus’ side, and off to sleep I went. Off I stayed until about five in the morning when I started scratching the right side of my head, and fighting what I thought was a maddened swarm of bees. The nurse came a running, but it was too late as I had torn off the dressing that was covering the scalp wound on the right side of my head. I had managed to cover my face with blood. Then it came back to me; the day that I had been hit I had blood on my face, but in my anxiety to get away from the lines had completely forgotten about it.
The nurse replaced my dressing as the dawn as only they have in France came breaking through. You all know “French Dawn” — she works in one of the nightclubs down town. The aides introduced me to something new that morning; washbasins with water in them. It took about half a second to appreciate the idea of genuine cleanliness when I promptly dove into one of the buckets.
It was a good thing that I washed that morning for in the evening they brought us what might be called a French USO show. We didn’t understand about ninety percent of what was going on, but that was no problem, for anatomical gyrations are a universal language. When the girls came close we discovered that they gave off a feminine scent, and the evening was complete.