CHAPTER 6

I can’t prove this, but I’m certain that the British must have had “land grant” railways in those days, for on another train 1 soon found myself. Train trips on the top of my thoracic troubles were adding to my misery. The nurse sensing my discomfort gave me a codeine pill. Before taking the pill I had argued with one of the fellows who was trying to be my morale builder that I was neither hungry nor sleepy. I soon ate a half of a can of boned chicken, and then passed out remaining asleep for the remainder of the ride to the dock.
When the train stopped I awakened only to find myself heaving up again: A new doctor, a new Levine tube, and a new misery. Down went tube number three. Levine tube or not the loading had to progress, and the two of us found ourselves being carried onto a hospital ship.
I knew that one trip across the Atlantic had been enough in my lifetime, but since it was going to “dear old stateside” I let my complaints ride. The inside of that ship was beautifully equipped with special bunks, which were made to cater to the wounded, for a soldier is not a sailor. No sooner had I been bedded down when I found myself receiving all sorts of personal attention.
The party or whatever you wish to call it lasted only but a few minutes when in walked the medical commander of the boat. Taking one look at me as he turned to his underlings he said: “Who’s the dumb bastard who had this man sent home by boat? Fifteen days on the high seas will kill him; get this man the hell off my boat.” In the Army the Sergeants had an expression for getting quick action. They would tell their men to snap *****, and this day was no exception, for the stuff flew in all directions. Back down the gangplank I went with the Levine tube still hanging from my nose. I was reloaded onto an ambulance, and off I drove again. A short ride, and I was at the U. S. Army station hospital in Southampton. Since I was such a special patient (the danger of being critically ill still hadn’t sunk into my mind) after they had gone through the routine of admitting me I was given the first bunk in the emergency ward.
A new patient is always a source of conversation and interest on any ward, and I was a real oddity. It was the second month after the war had ended, and someone who had really been wounded in combat was actually a patient there. They put a screen around my bed to assure me of some privacy, but instead only succeeded in creating “peeping toms”. It was useless, and the screens had to come down. With that came a parade of curious but friendly visitors.
By being wounded in action I had become an interesting sight to this polyglot conglomeration, but strangely it did not bother me, for it was all both exciting and amusing. I’ll admit though that sometimes they annoyed me with their hackneyed ways such as one day while throwing up on myself a wiseacre decided to give out with a trite expression, “Buddy, if you see hair it’s your arsehole, so swallow it back down.” Sensing that I didn’t think that his humor was well timed; he wandered off never to appear again. I always liked to ask these visitors about their disabilities, for they were of a minor nature and gave me a false sense of superiority.
One such case was the handsome young lad who had received two beautiful black eyes. When I asked him what had happened he replied that he was a prizefighter, and that he had lost his recent fight. I remarked that he had received quite a beating from his opponent. With an ugly look he turned to me and growled, “He didn’t do it; it was the bastards who bet on me.” He then slowly wandered off.
More X-rays, more blood tests, and more intravenous feedings followed by transfusions. By then I was throwing up almost as if upon schedule, and all day long the aides and nurses were carrying away the emeses. Occasionally there would be a break in this disgusting routine, and I would actually find myself hungry. On such a day I consumed the better part of a young chicken. This left me open to the cheering throng of which one stale character said, “Hell anyone who can eat like that ain’t sick.”
This character built up his ego by electing himself my protector to a point where I had to call upon the Navy for my protection. A sailor was in the hospital as a result of a barroom brawl, and since he was a member of the Merchant Marine, found himself immune to the book and its rules. When it came to raising hell he was the boy to call upon though sometimes he stretched a point by capitalizing on his exemption from discipline.
He even went so far as to poke fun at the commanding Colonel. One thing I will say is that he did it directly to the Colonel’s face, and not behind his back.
Since I was a special patient, if for no other reason than that I couldn’t help myself the Colonel always found time to stop at my bedside, and give me that old Rah Rah pep talk. He accompanied these soliloquies with strong waving motions of his arms, and shouted, “You’ve got to fight, boy. You got to fight.” How in the hell could I fight, if I couldn’t even move my bowels? I had no explanation as to why he did what he did except that I sincerely believe that he too was trying to build up my morale.
The next morning instead of the aide the ward doctor himself came in to give me an enema. There was my big chance, forever since leaving the “field hospital” something had bothered me. The notes on the tag that had been tied to my body said that in the laminectomy at the “field hospital” it had been observed that a section of my spinal cord was missing between the eleventh and twelfth vertebrae.
I questioned the doctor about what I had read, and elicited this reply. “Your legs will never regain their tone.” I replied, “Thanks, Doc‚” and lay back for the remainder of the enema. After I had my ablutions, and as the dressings and beds were being changed I began to wonder about the definition of the word tone”. My thinking started me worrying when I suddenly thought to myself, “Didn’t tone mean life? How could that be? The doctor in the field hospital had said that I would be healthy in six months. Did he lie to me? The doctor who gave me the enema must have been crazy. After all, wasn’t the doctor at the field hospital in on the operation?” From that point forward my attitude became one of wonder. I was fighting like a dog to stay alive, but was it worth it? Was there going to be any life to fight for? Whom do you believe? What was the truth? Or was it all a big joke?
Sleep was no longer easy to find at night. Amusing things were still happening on the ward, but I couldn’t find the desire to laugh. It was a great joke when the GI in the bed across from mine awoke one morning to start to eat his eggs only to let out with a wild scream. One of the eggs had an incomplete chicken embryo in it, but I didn’t laugh.
My nurse who was a gorgeous creature didn’t help my morale any when she wanted to know why I never prayed. She said that I should be concerned with my soul, but I of course naively replied, “What for? I am not sick.” She always had that look in her eye as if she were expecting me to leave for the happy hunting grounds at any second. I told her it spoiled her beauty, but she simply answered with a smile.
I found her spending more time caring for me than I thought she had ought to. I knew it wasn’t love, for she was always waiting for that phone call from her and Uncle Sam’s favorite First Lieutenant. The first day that she thought that the English sun was warm enough she had the aides push my bed out onto the patio for an extra dose of tender loving care.
They put me on a new regimen. Twice a day my chest wound was irrigated with penicillin solution. I didn’t mind having it poured into my chest through the open wound, but then it found its way to my mouth through the sinuses in my lung causing me to choke and gasp for breath. That was fair for after all a treatment was a treatment, but the damn stuff had to be kept under refrigeration. Every time it was poured into me I had to be tilted onto my opposite side, and my body temperature dropped about ten degrees. That wasn’t playing the game according to the rules.
Occasionally my nurse forgot to worry about me and concentrated on an aide who was an exception to the rule about hiding from work. He would become so wrapped up in his duties that he would forget to eat his meals, and she would have to chase him to the mess hall.
About two weeks after my stay had begun I awoke one morning to find a great symbol of peace and victory on my breakfast tray: a container of milk that had been transported across the Atlantic Ocean by refrigeration boat. I couldn’t wait for the white gold to thaw out. My milk was but half melted when I found myself the recipient of a parade in which each member was putting his container of milk upon my tray. I felt rather embarrassed, for I never felt that I was sickly enough to deprive the whole ward of its ration of what we had erringly called fresh milk. It was just like a field of gushers coming in until I opened my container, and the stench poured out. I didn’t bother checking the seals on the other containers. The old axioms about human nature had proven to be true. I called the aide and asked him to quickly dump the entire mess. It was time for me to go back on a wartime footing.
He had just about reached the doorway when the prisoner of war who had been assigned to clean the ward interpreted what was happening. He asked for the milk, and it was given to him. For the rest of the day he sang as he worked. I don’t know how he did it, but he had made himself euphoric on the soured nectar of the Gods. The enemy had an old saying that the American Armed Forces couldn’t fight without their candy bars, and I suppose it also applied to the recovery of our wounded. No one healed very well that day, for his milk was sour.
Not too much noise or ado was made about all this, but at breakfast a week later they served flapjacks that should have been more properly termed “blackjacks” (as that was their color), and which for some strange reason all fell accidentally to the floor. We had a cute young thing on duty that morning fresh from the stateside, and she was quite innocent to the ways of modern warfare. She took it all so seriously that she spent the entire morning crying. It appeared almost as if she had grilled them herself.
That afternoon after a slight nap I awoke to find what appeared like the high command of something or other standing around my bed. My first thought was “What the hell did I do?” The colonel, who was in command, spoke. “Son, you’ve got to go home.” He could see my eyes saying, “What in the hell ever gave you the impression that I didn’t want to you old jackass?” He bravely inched a little closer and added, “You’ve got to be seen by a chest specialist right away; you’re a very sick boy. There is none in England and very few in Europe. The United States abounds with them. We’ve decided that you must risk traveling again. We’re going to shoot the works and send you home by plane.
Before I could say “Why the hell didn’t they do it at Prestwick when I first was there?” he continued, “It was a mistake not to have completed your journey when you were at the airport. You have no choice; tomorrow morning you are leaving.” After having completed his effort to try and wash away the errors that had been committed he settled down to give me another pep talk. He told me what a rugged guy I was even though I knew that I was rapidly losing weight.
Uncle Sam had made a few mistakes, and the next morning he set out to rectify his account with Private First Class Joseph J. Silver. I found myself with that beautiful nurse who had worried about me so much, and the doctor who’d given me my enema in an ambulance headed for the railway yard. I was placed on the train a strange sensation came over me; I was receiving the VIP treatment. They had hooked the hospital car onto a British passenger train. Pfc J. J. Silver was the only patient in the car. On the bunk over me was the doctor, and on the bunk across from mine was my nurse. The United States of America was at this time going to make certain that its favorite “dogface” arrived safely at that airport.
The VIP treatment didn’t exempt me from my illness, and I soon found myself again nauseating. This time I felt rather sheepishly about my actions, for the Colonel had ordered the doctor and nurse to wear their dress uniforms for the journey. By the end of the trip they were both glad that they had brought along a change of clothing. When the train stopped I started to remember the ambulance trip that had triggered my miseries, and was all set to protest about another thirty-mile ride in a British ambulance. I had failed to give credit where credit was due. This stop was only five miles from the airport, and one of Detroit’s better built vehicles was waiting for the “king for the day‚”
I don’t know on whom to blame it, but fate had its way, and I was again in the same bed as before. When my doctor and nurse were through cutting the necessary red tape they came over to say good-bye. The doctor shook my hand, but my nurse just looked at me with an unbelieving air, and said,”Congratu1ations, kid. I never thought you would make it.” She then stepped up to give my head a fond caress, and added, “I still think you ought to start thinking about your soul.” I tried to work up a smile as I wanefully said good-bye, but the truth was that I hated to see them go.
I never did have a chance to see that stinking bastard of a doctor who detoured my first air trip home. I didn’t know if he was at the base or not, and though I wasn’t strong enough to throw anything, I most certainly would have found some suitable epitaph if I could have located him. Between the pain, emeses, and choking I didn’t sleep very well that night. The next morning they didn’t have to bother to awaken me. The plane was scheduled for an early take-off, and since I was number one “top dog” with a “red ball priority” I was the first to be approached by the litter bearers. The first aide asked if there were anything I wanted as there was little time left before take-off. At that point I decided I didn’t want to go home. That made their eyes pop, but I tried to reason with them that I was too sick. If my parents saw me in that condition it might harm their health. The doctor came over to the litter; handed me a box of Kleenex, and said, “Here wipe your nose.” He then gave orders to the aides to move me onto the waiting C54.
I found myself being placed on the center bunk, which has no other bunks over it. All the other bunks on both walls were stacked four high. Since my bunk was across from the doorway it put me on what you might call a private room without walls. I’m certain that it had nothing to do with my having a “red ball priority”, but my nurse on the plane turned out to be a redhead. I could tell that the coloring was natural, for she spent most of her time catering to me; giving me quite a few hours during which I could examine the situation.
It didn’t matter to the cargo how badly it was beaten up, for though it was a scary-looking lot with such things missing as arms legs, and parts of faces; the singing, yells, and smiles would have overpowered your vision enough to convince you that you were looking at the healthiest GROUP of millionaires in the world. Our plane was headed westward over the Atlantic toward home, and nothing in the world could convince this conglomeration of carnage that the world wasn’t a nice place to live in. I even found time to smile between my spells of nausea.
The doctor had a system of first aid for my nausea, or at least he thought so. It was an oxygen mask, but after I did such a beautiful job of plastering Uncle Sam’s expensive equipment with my gastric juices he withdrew his offer in favor of an emeses basin.
We hadn’t been going through this routine too long when the pilot walked up, and started to tell everyone not to fret for we were only flying at four thousand feet. I still haven’t figured out to this day the purpose of this message, or its importance, but it was repeated many times during the remainder of the journey. I had no way of reckoning how long we were in the air, but it wasn’t too many hours before we reached our first stopover point, which happened to be Iceland.
Upon landing the word had gotten around that there was fresh milk available outside for all of those who were interested. That was the day that I received one of my first lessons on why not to be a paraplegic. Every blind, crippled, maimed, and healthy bastard scattered leaving me alone to enjoy the taste of my saliva. The only thing that they brought to me was a different nurse. This girl was blonde, but I can’t make out an affidavit as to the authenticity of the coloring. My new guardian angel was a great deal more loquacious than the first, and found time to tell me of her trying experiences during the war. Her tales could have had some relationship to the pilot’s advertising to us the plane’s altitude.
She told me what I thought to be a strange story, but one that I’ve learned since was quite common practice during the Second World War. She had been flying with a planeload of wounded out of Paris during hostilities, and they had brought along a case of champagne, which they had bartered for with Uncle Sam’s cigarettes. In the air the case exploded, and the party, which had been planned for that evening at their air base in England, had to be cancelled.
With the coming of peace parties no longer had to be abandoned because of problems in logistics; making her quite positive that the war’s end was a good thing. It took about four or five more stories about her brave wartime escapades to while away the hours until we finally landed at Greenland; our next stopover.
The Air Force was more brazen than I had ever imagined it to be, for without a whim as to who might be listening a nurse jumped onto the plane, and started proposing a deal to mine. It seemed that this nurse, who incidentally happened to be a brunette, wanted very much to go to New York City to do some shopping. Her plan was simple; the blonde would visit her boy friend, who just happened to be stationed in Greenland, and the other would continue on to New York City to complete her shopping. She then would return to Greenland where she would switch with my original nurse who had always been on a round trip schedule. This idea elated the blonde who started to jump for joy, and then in front of the jealous dogfaces kissed the brunette. She was able to have a few hours with her boy friend which otherwise would have been impossible. Someone remarked that that was almost as good as a marriage certificate. Off to the lockers she went to pick up her duffle bag.
I never noticed whether the first nurse reported to the departing nurse as to the status of the patients who had been left in her charge. One of the boys at this point said that no one was to worry, for since we were flying over the Atlantic anyone who dies on the trip would be buried at sea with full ceremony. The second joker in this scene chimed in to add that it was sacrilegious to drape the American flag over a relief tube. The mood for humor suddenly broke up when we heard a noise that sounded as if the plane had flown under a tree with its branches scraping the outer hull. The nurse at first started to laugh, but then realizing that some of us were actually frightened had the Captain come out and soothe the crowd. He couldn’t give any rational explanation for the strange phenomenon, but assured the boys that he heard it before and expected to hear it many times again.
About five hours later the crowd again began to grow uneasy. It was not the restlessness that comes with fear, but the apprehension that comes with the knowledge that we were so close to home but not quite there. It was a heartwarming sensation with a touch of doubt. A miss is as good as a mile. It was a trite thought, but it was hell to try to kick it out of the back of our heads. Suddenly the tension doubled; you could smell New York in the air. As the plane was dropping we said to each other that only New York City could have an aroma such as that in the summertime. There was no one on that plane who knew that sweet scent better than I, for I had the misfortune of spending many of my youthful years in Gotham. I could climb down a sewer after a “stick ball” as well as any “dead end kid”, but thanks to God, Mom, and Pop, I didn’t grow up to be one. Positive as we all were that the plane would crash upon landing; nothing happened. Mitchell Field had received a new shipment of human refuse.