This episode had its origin in the Eastern states. Italy had caved in, Germany had folded up, and Japan was hanging on by the skin of its teeth. Wounded soldiers were cramming Uncle Sam’s surgical wards, principally from the European area, and I was one of them. But my point of origin had been from the Pacific. Within two weeks I had passed through half a dozen hospitals, traveled thousands of miles by air, always in a stretcher, for my spine had been fractured. The cast that I wore, covering my torso from chin to crotch, stank of stale tropical meat from at least two months’ sweat absorption. My skin was irritated and itchy, and my khaki shirt and trousers were 3 inches larger in circumference in order to fit over the bulk of my encasement. I was in no genial mood, therefore, when I arrived late one evening in the early spring at the offices of a military establishment to be informed by the desk clerk that I was in a reconditioning camp and would report at bugle call the next morning for exercises.

I blew my top. By this time I was able to walk with the use of a cane, which I now used for emphasis. I knew that dope of a medic was sending me to the wrong place. Folks all along the line expressed wonderment that I should be so active. “How about my bed: has it boards under the mattress?” “Sorry sir; it’s just an army cot, like all the rest of them.” “Who is in charge of this office? That officer?” I shouted. I say I shouted because I had noticed a group of officers sitting around at a table not 30 paces away playing poker. I was an officer, a Captain, in fact, and had spent four years away from home. I surmised that the duty officer was right there in the group. It worked. Reluctantly, a major arose and strode my way with a bored attitude. I accepted his challenge and surprised him with an attack. “Is this a hospital or isn’t it?” “No, it is not”, he replied. “May I see your orders.” “Orders, orders, orders! Can no one see or think or feel in this place? Surely, you must have a dispensary, a doctor. I insist on contacting the physician before I move out of this office.”

By now the major seemed to see the light through his highballs [whiskey and ginger ale]. He had a phone in his hand and was speaking to the infirmary. There was a pause, while at the far end an attendant summoned someone else to the phone. During the delay the chips were bouncing upon the poker table, ice was clicking in the glasses and the major took a few looks over at the boys. He was caught midway with his mouth open, giving a sly remark to his buddies, when he was arrested by a voice on the other end of the phone. There was a brief interchange of words and the major lifted one eyebrow toward me, keeping the other one down behind the phone. He addressed me casually, “We are going to see what we can do.”

It was my turn to be bored. He saw the glint of contempt in my eyes. He must have felt the ice running down his back as I opened the front of my khaki shirt a little more and suggested, “This instrument of torture was devised for a broken back. “ He relayed this over the phone and told the person on the other end of the line that I am a Captain, and then stated that he would send me over right away. Then, turning to me, he showed the first sign of understanding: “I guess you are right. Even the Doc seems to think you don’t belong here.” Without even looking at my papers, he handed them to the clerk at his side, who had been taking all this in, and instructed: “Take the Captain over to the infirmary, the officers’ infirmary, where the doctor will be waiting for him.” I was transported by ambulance to the lower end of the infirmary. The major came down a corridor to meet me and assure himself that I was able to walk. It was the first gesture of consideration I had experienced. The doctor was definitely Jewish, short, plump with dancing brown eyes and a fatherly manner. He anticipated my mood and smoothed it away by explaining there must’ve been some mistake.