Edge of Valor (17 page)

For a brief moment a warm feeling seeped through her. Maybe he
was
here. He'd just gotten up to make the coffee and was plowing around in the kitchen, clanking the dishes, filling the percolator.
And yet, he's not here
. She thumped the bed's left side just to make sure.
No, not here; not yet
. She grabbed his pillow, hugged it close, and lay back.

Early morning light crept into the room. A glance at her alarm clock told her it was 6:17. Whoops. It hadn't gone off. She picked it up and found she'd forgotten to wind the alarm last night; it was set for six o'clock. She cranked it up for tomorrow, then set the clock down and stared at the face.

Where are you, darling? Be well. Be safe. Come back to us soon. I love you
. Then she said the Lord's Prayer and added a blessing for Todd.

A screech from the baby's room: Jerry. With a sigh, she got up, put on a robe, and looked out the window: bright sunlight caressed their Alma Street house. Another hot one today.

The Fort MacArthur Infirmary was busy as always. Patients still flooded in from the Okinawa and Iwo Jima campaigns. Plus there was a residue of hard-case GIs from previous campaigns dating back to 1942: burn cases were the slowest to heal, and those needing prosthetic limbs.

Ward 6 was a special area for those who couldn't cope. Some called it combat fatigue; some called it cowardice. The seriously wounded said nothing against the patients in Ward 6. Sometimes they commiserated. The brain, the mind, has
a right to be wounded or ill, just like the stomach or a decayed tooth. All needed professional help.

Many in Ward 6 feared change, especially sudden change—a loud sound, a flash of light, an unseen voice. Some trembled at unexpected phenomena such as wind or rain rattling the windows, especially at night. Lightning and thunder were the worst for these GIs. They pulled the sheets over their heads. Other things rattled their nerves. A door opening down the hall sending a sudden shaft of light bursting into the room evoked a stark recollection of a grenade or a bomb explosion or a fuel tank going up.

Late that afternoon Helen lay on the floor beside Cpl. Eddie Bergen's bed trying to coax him out. He'd been in the courtyard enjoying the sun when a fog clamped down on San Pedro. Eddie had walked inside, crawled under his bed, went fetal, and closed his eyes.

Helen recalled his record. Eddie was a tanker, a 75-mm gun loader on an M-4 Sherman tank crawling around Okinawa. The Japanese had taken out roughly half the tanks on Okinawa, and Eddie's tank fell unfortunately into that category. The 30-ton M-4 had clanked up to a cave entrance and began to train the mount inside and blast away. Instead, it hit a land mine. The charge was so powerful that it blew the Sherman on its back, leaving a six-foot-deep crater. Eddie was shaken but relatively uninjured. The tank caught fire, but Eddie scrambled up for the belly escape hatch, somehow making it out first. But he didn't jump. With Japanese bullets clanking all around him, he reached in and pulled out Steve Marcus, the machine gunner. Then Eddie pulled out Rich Casenilli, the driver. He had both of the tank commander's wrists when a 7.2-mm round caught him in the butt and knocked him off the tank. He started to scramble back up, but ammunition began cooking off inside. They had to drag him away. The tank commander, Sgt. Orville Diggs, one of his best friends, was incinerated as those rounds went off. In tortured dreams, day and night, Eddie heard Orville's screams as the tank went up—first the gas, then the ammo. He slept in fits, getting a few minutes, maybe a half hour, at a time.

Drugs didn't help. Orville Diggs' screams came back the moment Eddie nodded off. They'd sewed up Eddie's butt and shot him with the new miracle drug, penicillin. The wound healed nicely. But wonder drugs couldn't heal Eddie's mind.

Eddie stretched out: a good sign. It meant he was about ready to come out and return to the real world.

“Hand me a cigarette?” Eddie asked. Eddie smoked like a forest fire. It was Helen's best weapon.

“Come on out and get one, Eddie.” She took a Lucky from the top of his bed stand and waved it.

“Aww, come on,” he pleaded.

“Eddie, you're sweating,” she said.

“Hot under here,” said Eddie.

“Fire hazard under the bed, Eddie.”

“Please?”

“And look at this.” She waved a Donald Duck comic book before him. Donald Duck was what had lured him out last week when the hospital commander, Colonel Ledbetter, marched in with six men, drew them to attention, and politely stood by while Helen coaxed Eddie from underneath the bed. He crawled out, stood, and wrapped his arms around himself as if he were in a straitjacket, then jumped under his covers and went fetal again. A moment passed. Colonel Ledbetter gave a polite cough and then he and his staffers gathered around Eddie's bed. Among them was Sgt. Melvin Letenske, Colonel Ledbetter's adjutant.

While Helen stroked Eddie's head and held his hand, Colonel Ledbetter read the citation awarding Cpl. Eddie Bergen the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.

Eddie teared up.

Colonel Ledbetter became misty-eyed too, and had to fight his way through the rest of the citation. Finally, it was over. He thrust out his hand. Letenske handed the medals to him. The colonel took a step toward Eddie's bed. But Eddie cringed, again drawing his arms around himself. Judiciously, Colonel Ledbetter pinned the medals on Eddie's pillow. Then Ledbetter stepped back, congratulated Eddie, saluted, and marched out with his staffers.

The last man was no sooner out the door when Eddie lit up a Lucky Strike and grabbed his Donald Duck.

Others said Helen was being too easy on Eddie. Even Dr. Raduga, the psychiatrist, advised her to tone down her commiseration. But Helen knew what Eddie was going through. Nightmares brought it all back. She had endured capture by the Japanese, and torture; the cigarette burns were still evident on her legs and the balls of her feet. At times, those horrible nightmares swirled in her sleep: Corregidor, Malinta Tunnel, Japanese artillery pounding mercilessly around the clock, sewer lines stopped up, one-third rations, no medical supplies, no anesthetics, amputations on screaming patients, their vacant eyes, the hopeless, ravaged eyes of the dead. But Marinduque Island, where the Kempetai had captured and tortured her, was far worse. She saw what they did to the Filipinos: the senseless and wanton raping of young women, hanging men upside down over a bonfire and laughing at their screams. At times she still felt like crawling into a hole. Todd had had it just as bad. Yes, she knew what Eddie was going through.

Again Helen waved the Donald Duck comic. “It's brand new. There's a new guy, Uncle Scrooge.”

“Hell, yes.” He smiled and reached.

She drew the comic book back. “Out here, Eddie. You know the rules. No reading under the bed.”

Eddie crawled out, almost like he was scrambling through the hatch of his M-4.

He's nimble today
.

Eddie stood to his full five-foot six-inch height. “Any more of that cake left?”

“I think so. You want some?”

“Yes, please, Mrs. Ingram.” He took the comic book with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other.

“On its way.” Helen headed for the kitchen. She looked back just as she walked through the door. Eddie had taken a chair by the window. The fog had cleared, and full sunshine cascaded through the blue smoke hanging over Eddie. Helen watched as he settled down with his comic book. That was a first.

In the kitchen, she wolfed down half a slice of the chocolate cake, grabbed a piece for Eddie, and then headed back.

Sergeant Caparani stuck his head out his door as she went by. “Captain, can we see you for a moment, please?”

She stopped. “Okay.”

“In here please, ma'am.”

A man in Army fatigues sat before Letenske's desk. His nametag said Watson, but he bore no sign of rank or service affiliation.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Are you Captain Helen D. Ingram?” the man asked. He snapped open a briefcase.

“That's correct.”

“And you have ID?”

All Helen had was Eddie's cake. “No. It's back in my ward. Today it's Ward 6.”

Watson said, “Well, then. You wouldn't mind—”

“What do you need, Mr. Watson?” Helen asked briskly.

Letenske said sotto voce, “I think he's a courier, ma'am.”

Helen tensed. A damned courier. That could mean new orders or some other official correspondence that could transfer her out of here. Which she didn't want. Suddenly, she knew exactly how Eddie felt.
Never disrupt the status quo. Just let me remain here and greet my husband when he returns home. I can't move. I don't want to move. I won't move
. She thought about Eddie and crawling under her bed at home and taking a comic book with her.

With a nod to Letenske, Watson asked, “Are you going to get your ID?”

“We'll vouch for her, Mr. Watson,” said Letenske. He nodded to the inner door. “Of course, you're welcome to speak with Colonel Ledbetter. But you'll have to wait. He's in surgery right now.”

Watson blinked and made a decision. “Very good. If you'll sign right here, ma'am?” He handed over a clipboard.

Helen signed, and Watson passed over an envelope wrapped in cellophane. It was elaborately stamped and dated yesterday. She opened it while they watched. “Todd!” she squealed. Embarrassed, she looked up. Letenske wore a big grin. Watson scratched his head. “My husband,” she explained. “It's dated yesterday. How did you—”

“I'm just a courier, ma'am. Picked it up in Hawaii this morning. Got in half an hour ago. And now,” he stood, “I must continue on to Washington, D.C. A bunch of stuff for delivery.”

“The courier business is intense these days?” asked Letenske.

Watson flushed. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” He reached for Helen's hand. “I'm glad you're hearing from your . . .”

“Husband,” she said.

“I wish you all the best.” Watson walked out.

Sunlight poured through the window. Eddie was still engrossed in his Donald Duck. He accepted his cake with a distant “Thanks” and kept reading.

Helen said a hurried “You're welcome,” then rushed to her desk at the end of the ward and sat to read Todd's letter:

My Dearest,

I'm sort of writing this on the fly since I am TAD to an operation that sounds very important. So important that I'll have a lot of fun telling Jerry about it in years to come, with me embellishing at every turn of the road. I wish I could say more but it sounds like a big deal. I can tell you that Admiral Ray Spruance personally ordered me here, so that should be justification in and of itself.

Things on the ship are fine. She's repaired now and ready for sea. Predictably, Boom Boom and Tubby White are going at it, almost in public. I'm never sure if they do it for show or if they truly hate each other. Can't tell you how many times I've had to break it up, though.

Speaking of Boom Boom, tell Laura that I pressured him to get things going, to set a date and get married. It's time those two grew up. Separately, they're the finest people you could find. Together, they're like a couple of fighting ten-year-old siblings—I'll never figure it out. Anyway, please advise her to get off the dime and pick a date. I'll do the same with Boom Boom. Maybe we'll have a ceremony yet.