Retreat, Hell! Part 60

McCoy went back in the shirt pocket, came out with a small vial of pills, and handed it to Captain Schermer.

"How many of these have you taken? And when?"

"None, sir."

"You're a real tough Marine, are you? Or maybe a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t? That has to hurt like h.e.l.l every time you move."

McCoy didn't reply.

Dr. Schermer walked to a sink and came back with a paper water cup.

"Take two of these now," he said, and turned to the nurse. "See that he gets one every four hours. Make sure his chart says 'do not wake to administer.' And start penicillin again in the morning."

"Yes, sir," the nurse said.

Schermer turned to Pickering.

"Well, General, the major gets at least ninety-six hours in bed," he said. "At least forty-eight of which he should spend offering prayers of grat.i.tude that whatever hit him didn't go an inch deeper. Or four inches higher." He looked at McCoy. "I said take two of those, Major."

"Sir, could I hold off until I can call my wife? She's in Tokyo. I don't want to sound like a zombie."

"Which brings us to Mrs. McCoy," Dr. Schermer said. "Had you planned to tell your wife about your leg, Major?"

"Nothing to tell," McCoy said.

"I think she'll be just a little curious when she sees that bandaged leg," Dr. Schermer said.

"She's not going to see it, sir."

"Ernie's here, Ken," Pickering said.

"She's here?"

"She came to see Pick," Pickering said.

Schermer added, "And a combination of the train ride down here, seeing Major Pickering, and learning of Miss Priestly's death almost-I say almost-caused her to lose the baby."

"Oh, s.h.i.t!"

"At the moment, her condition ranges from stable to improving slightly," Dr. Schermer said.

"I want to see her," McCoy said.

"I am wondering what her reaction will be to learning she almost lost her husband," Dr. Schermer said.

"She's a pretty tough girl," Pickering said.

"I noticed," Schermer said.

"Ken," Pickering said, "Pick took Jeanette's death pretty badly."

"I suppose," McCoy said.

"Dr. Schermer thought, and I agree, that in addition to her own worries, Ernie didn't need to be any more upset by him. So he's on his way to the States."

"He was that bad?" McCoy asked.

"He needs a lot of rest, Major. Physically and emotionally. He wasn't going to get much emotional rest here- sending him to the States, we hope, will sort of close a door on what happened to him here-and the hospital at San Diego has the facilities to take better care of him than we can here."

"I guess that answers my question, doesn't it?"

"What he did, Ken," Pickering said, "when he finally broke down, was start to cry. And he couldn't stop. And since he didn't want Ernie, or George, or Zimmerman, or me, to see him crying, that made it worse."

"A vicious emotional circle, Major," Captain Schermer said. "We got it under control here, temporarily, with medicine, but what Major Pickering needs is a lot of time with a good psychiatrist, and they've got better ones in San Diego."

"And we haven't told Ernie about this yet, either," Pickering said.

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"Your call, Major," Dr. Schermer said. "How do we deal with your wife? If you think a telephone call would be better, if you think learning that you've been wounded would upset her even more . . ."

"I'm not going to be wheeled into her room on a gurney, " McCoy said.

"Can you walk?"

"And I want to go in alone," McCoy said. "And not in Al Haig's Army pants and shirt."

"Is that where that came from?" Pickering asked, chuckling. "Doctor, Captain Haig is General Almond's aide-de-camp."

"There's an officers' sales store in the hospital," Dr. Schermer said. "If you will agree to be rolled there in a wheelchair-and from there to your wife's room?"

"Deal," McCoy said. "That is, if General Pickering will loan me enough money to buy a uniform."

"I think that can be worked out," Pickering said.

[FOUR].

Major Kenneth R. McCoy sat with a white hospital blanket over his knees in a wheelchair in a small dressing cubicle in the officers' sales store. He was waiting for his new uniform trousers to be taken in an inch at the waist, and for them to be provided with precisely the correct crotch-to-cuff length. While he was waiting, he was giving serious, just about completely futile, thought about what bright and witty comment, or comments, he would make to his wife when he walked into her room.

He had just about decided that he was not going to be able to come up with something useful when his reverie was interrupted by Captain George F. Hart coming into the cubicle with a dozen roses.

"Where the h.e.l.l did you get those?" McCoy asked.

"It wasn't easy," Hart said. "A lesser dog robber than myself probably would have had to settle for one of those miniature trees-"

"Bonsai," McCoy furnished.

"-of which the j.a.panese seem so fond."

"Thanks, George."

"On the other hand, maybe a bonsai tree would have been better," Hart said. "The roses are going to wilt. The bonsai would last for the next century, as a souvenir of this unexpected encounter."

A j.a.panese seamstress pushed the curtain aside, handed McCoy the trousers, and then folded her arms over her breast, obviously intending to see how well she had done her job.

"Would you please wait outside for a minute?" McCoy said to her.

Her eyes widened when she heard the faultless j.a.panese. She bowed and backed out of the dressing cubicle.

"That always bugs me," Hart said. "They're always surprised as h.e.l.l when one of us speaks j.a.panese, but a h.e.l.l of a lot of them speak English."

"That's because we're barbarians, George," McCoy said. He handed Hart the hospital blanket, then started to put his left leg in the trousers. He winced.

"You need some help with that?" Hart asked.

"They are surprised when we use indoor plumbing, take showers, and don't eat with our fingers," McCoy went on as if he hadn't heard the offer of help.

He got the right leg mostly inside the trousers, and then, awkwardly, got out of the wheelchair and pulled them up. He tucked his shirttail in, then pulled up the zipper and closed the belt.

"Hand me the field scarf, please," he asked, pointing to the necktie hanging from a hook.

Hart handed it to him, and McCoy turned around to face the mirror and worked the field scarf under his shirt collar.

"That hurt. I was better off before I let the doc talk me into the wheelchair."

"What did you do on the plane?" Hart asked.

"Planes," McCoy corrected him. "The Beaver from Wonsan to Seoul, and it hurt to move when I got out of that. Then a C-54 to Pusan. I walked up and down the aisle in that-it was the courier plane, full of chair warmers giving me dirty looks because I was wearing Al Haig's shirt and pants-and it didn't hurt-or hurt less-when I got off it. And I walked-not far-around Pusan to keep it from getting stiff until I got on a Navy Gooney Bird that brought me here. Hospital plane, full of wounded Marines. I walked up and down the aisle of that one, too. And I was doing pretty good until I got here. Now it hurts like h.e.l.l."

"Moving pulls on the sutures," Hart said.

"Thank you, Dr. Hart. I had no idea what was making me hurt."

He pulled on a tunic, examined himself in the mirror, then turned away from it.

"I think I'll pa.s.s on the wheelchair," he said.

"Not only did you give your word as an officer and gentleman, but Ernie's room is way to h.e.l.l and gone across the hospital."

"Well, maybe I can ride part of the way," McCoy said, and carefully lowered himself into the wheelchair.

Outside the room with the sign "McCoy, Mrs. Ernestine NO VISITORS," Hart took the roses from McCoy's lap and held them while McCoy got out of the wheelchair and painfully moved his leg around. Then, when McCoy nodded, Hart handed him the roses and pushed open the heavy door.

"That will be all, Captain Hart, thank you," McCoy said, and walked into the room.

Ernie was in bed, with the back raised, reading a book. She looked up when she saw him.

"You apparently can't read, Major," she said after a long moment. "The sign says no visitors."

"What are you reading?"

"A novel. The Egyptian. The Egyptian."

"Is it any good?"

"It is not about Korea or childbearing," Ernie said. "What's with the roses?"

He walked to the bed and handed them to her.

If I limped, she didn't seem to notice.

"Knowing you as I do, these were somebody else's idea," Ernie said.

"Hart's," McCoy admitted. "You almost got a bonsai tree."

"Are you going to put your arms around me, or I am that repulsive in my bloated condition?"

He leaned over the bed and put his arms around her.

"Oh, Ken, I've missed you!" she said into his neck.

"Me, too, baby," he said.

"How much do you know?" Ernie asked, still speaking into his neck.

"I know it was a d.a.m.ned fool thing to do, taking a train down here," he said.

"I almost lost it," she said. "But I had to see Pick."

"I know."

She let him go, and sort of pushed him away.

"Okay. Now what's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Nothing's wrong with me," he said.

"You're as pale as a sheet, and there's something wrong with your leg," she said.

"I took a little piece of shrapnel," he said.

"Is that why you're walking that way?"

"What way?"

"Ken, is that why you're walking that way?"

"I suppose."