James Estep: Comanche Six

Sometime after the new day had dawned, a doctor came by to tell me of my postop prognosis.

“You lost a lot of bone there, Captain. About two inches. That’ll never come back, so we’ll probably be looking at footwear buildup and a leg brace somewhere down the line. You also have some nerve damage.”

“What about the leg, Doc? Am I gonna walk on it, run on it again?”

“I honestly think so,” he said, “but, of course, I can’t guarantee it. We’ll be watching closely for any infection in the coming weeks. You know, you really shouldn’t lie in a rice paddy with an open wound.”

He smiled at me a moment and then continued: “Although amputation… loss of the leg, or a portion of it, is within the realm of possibility, there’s no medical reason for worrying about that at this time.”

I could not have asked for a more honest or forthright opinion. I thanked him and never saw him again.

After he departed, a chaplain from the First Cavalry Division came by, to talk to me about those things that chaplains get paid to talk to wounded soldiers about, none of which interested me very much.

Instead, I wanted news of my company. How are the wounded? Did they take Xom Dong My? What did they find? Where are they now? Who’s in command? Of course, he was unable to answer any of my questions, but he did write them down and promised to get back to me just as soon as possible. I thanked him—and never saw him again.

That night many of us on the ward were loaded stretcher to stretcher on a C-141 StarLifter to begin our long flight home. As we went wheels up,” leaving Vietnam and the war behind us—or so we all thought—my thoughts remained with Charlie Company.

Let it go, Comanche Six; let it go. It’s over!

Indeed it was. I was no longer Comanche Six. Or Comanche anything. I was just another wounded soldier.

March’s cold damp air felt foreign, unfamiliar, as we were carried from our StarLifter to the awaiting ambulance buses at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. It was a clear, frigid night, and the temperature couldn’t have been much above freezing, manifest evidence that the Nam was indeed behind us and we were home!

But there was no celebration, no kissing of our native soil, or screams of joy, or tears of relief. There were no wives or girlfriends, no bands, no flag-waving masses, no grateful citizenry throwing flowers at our feet—those of us who still had feet. Nor did the government that had sent us forth to do battle have a single representative, uniformed or otherwise, there to greet us on our return. Only the bus drivers, standing by idly with cigarettes dangling from their mouths and hands in their pockets, waited planeside. Once our stretchers were unceremoniously strapped into their vehicles, we began the last leg of our twelve-thousand-mile trip home.

“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.