“Where are we going now?” I asked the nurse as she rolled me into the hospital’s orthopedics ward.
“To the pit, Captain,” she responded, looking down at me as I lay on the gurney looking up at her. “This portion of the ward is referred to by its occupants as the ‘snake pit.” But don’t let that scare you. They’re a good bunch, officers and gentlemen all… uh… most of the time.”
Inasmuch as it was fairly late at night, I assumed the pit would be shrouded in darkness with its inhabitants in a sound sleep, drug induced or otherwise. After all, this was a military hospital.
As the nurse pushed the gurney through a set of double wooden doors, I saw that the snake pit was anything but in slumber. Its windows’ blinds were closed and drapes drawn, perhaps to shield the scantil y clad go-go girl dancer from any inquisitive soul who might happen by on the sidewalk bordering the building’s exterior. This very attractive young lady stood atop a table in the middle of the eight-to ten-bed ward, swaying seductively to the music of a portable radio.
While the nurse and a medical attendant transferred me from the gurney to a corner bed, I took notice of my roommates. As with the beds, there were eight to ten of them, nearly all of whom looked a bit younger than me and all of them amputees, some twice so. Those not confined to their beds sat around the table, smoking, joking, and drinking, as they watched the dancer above them trying to separate her pelvis from her lower torso. Most were dressed in standard blue hospital garb that in some cases was covered by striped robes bearing the initials WRGH on the left pocket. A couple, however, were clad in slacks and sweaters.
“Now you just make yourself comfortable and hang tight while I go get you some water and your kit,” the nurse said, departing.
“Hi. Name’s Stan,” one of the two patients in civilian attire said, shaking my hand. “Want a beer?”
“Yeah, I’d appreciate that. Uh… name’s Jim.”
Returning to my bedside, beer in hand, he asked, “What outfit? Where, when, and how bad?”
“Cav, Fifth Cavalry. Two, three days ago, north of Hue, and I don’t know.”
“Well, Jim, you can bet your sweet ass it’s more than just superficial, or you wouldn’t be joining us in the pit. As you might have noticed, most of us are missing assorted parts of our anatomy.”
“Yeah, so I see. But you look whole,” I commented, although I had noticed he limped badly while fetching my beer.
“Ah, but looks can be deceiving,” he said, knocking loudly on an artificial leg hidden by his slacks. “Lost it just above the knee nearly a year ago. Transferring me over to Forest Glen tomorrow.” (Forest Glen was Walter Reed’s recuperation annex.)
We were briefly interrupted by the nurse’s return. She deposited my water bottle and “kit” (a stainless steel urinal and bedpan, toothbrush, soap, and washcloths) at bedside, checked my IV, plugged a fresh bottle of whatever into it, and said, “Got to get some fluids into you, Captain, and I want you to drink plenty of water. It’s good for YOU.”
“What have we here, fresh meat?” a somewhat gaudily dressed middle-aged woman said, approaching the bed.
“Jim, meet ‘Sweet’ Mary,” Stan said, grinning. “Sweetest angel in the city of Washington. Knows how to take care of us poor crippled folk, so much so she makes Florence Nightingale look like the goddamn enemy! Young lady atop the table over there, by the way, is courtesy of Sweet Mary here.”
He paused and gave Mary a peck on the cheek.
“I mean it, Jim. This lady makes Florence look like Ho Chi Minh’s old-maid aunt! So I’m gonna let the two of you get acquainted while I get back to the festivities. Hell, it’s my going-away party!”
He turned to go and then, over his shoulder, said, “Hang tight there, partner, and remember, it’s always darkest just before they wheel you into preop.”
Returning to his place of honor at the table in the center of the ward, Stan sat down, gazing contentedly at the young lady above him.
Sweet Mary was perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, a little on the chubby side and a bit overly made up. But Stan was right. She was indeed a princess in every respect.
“I know you’re in pain,” she said. “They tell me these first few days are the hardest. Would a drink help?”
“Drink? Drink of what, Mary?”
Reaching into a large vinyl-like shopping bag, she retrieved a nearly full bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon.
“Only the best for our fighting forces,” she chimed, smiling. “Water okay?”
“Water’s fine. Hell, it’s good for you. But just a tad, please.”
Using the ice water the nurse had so conveniently set at bedside minutes before, she quickly mixed a potent bourbon and branch. Then we talked, but not of the war or anything of importance. Mostly just chitchat about families and friends, likes and dislikes. In fact, Mary’s ramblings were very much like those of the chaplain, but coming from her these same trite utterances were far more interesting, entertaining.
And, I thought to myself, if our straight and true of God’s squad carried a bottle of Wild Turkey in their kits, they might very well find a whole new world in chaplain-patient relationships opening up to them.
Mary introduced me to a couple of my fellow patients, while others, at one point or another, introduced themselves. Later, her seductive protiage from atop the table came over, and we talked for awhile. Her name was Susan, and her bedside manner was light-years ahead of that of our chaplain brethren.
“Looks like you’re running on empty there, Jim,” Mary said. “Would you like another?”
“Uh… a tad, please.”
The evening wore on and eventually, finally, wore out. Before Mary departed, I asked her why she did this, why make these time-consuming and, I would imagine, somewhat expensive visits to the different wards at Walter Reed.
She merely smiled, winked, and said, “Well, it keeps me off the streets. See you in a week or so. Hang tight.”
Yeah, just gotta hang tight, I told myself. I’ll survive this tour; it’s no different from any other. Just another tour of duty.
Within a short time, I discovered Walter Reed’s orthopedics ward to be similar to any other well-functioning military organization. The doctors were without question the best in their profession, as was the nursing staff. And the nurses would do anything in the world for us—well, almost anything, although even on that score some of the alcohol rubs were pretty exciting. As in any well-run military unit, the ward’s underlying philosophy was “work hard, play hard.” The staff tolerated no action on our part that might compromise an early recovery and release. If we were scheduled for two hours of torture in physical therapy, we had no choice but to endure those two hours of pain. If we were granted a pass or placed on convalescent leave, we were wise to return to the ward on time and without having reinjured our wounds in some drunken fall.
However, we were allowed to come and go pretty much as we pleased; there were no staff-imposed curfews, visiting hours were essentially all hours of the day and much of the night, and the nurses rarely took notice of our private class VI (booze) stocks.
Time passed relatively quickly. There were the good days—those days between operations, the most mobile and pain-free time. And bad days—those immediately following an operation, the ones in which you slept with the animal pain.