None but the Brave

Twenty minutes after he came to, he found that his left arm had been amputated.

He had opened his eyes, looked about, recognized a hospital tent, remembered being wounded, and closed his eyes. Relax, he thought. That's the main thing. Relax.

A few minutes later, his left thigh began to itch. He reached down with his left hand and scratched, but nothing happened. He tried again. No sensation. Anesthetized, he thought. Or arm's asleep. What's the word for it? He thought hard, trying to recall the time and place he had learned it at Harvard Medical. Finally, it came. Acroparesthesia. He smiled in self-congratulation. Massage, he prescribed, and brought his right arm across his chest. He began rubbing but stopped as he felt the texture of the sheet. He could not find his left arm. Dreaming, he thought. He opened his eyes and kept them open until he was certain that he was awake. He pulled the blanket down and looked. Extending from his left shoulder was a bandaged stump. It was then that he knew. He shivered and broke into a sudden sweat. There was not a dry spot on his body. Hyperidrosis, he diagnosed. Left arm, he considered. Well, that's a break, anyway. He closed his eyes and saw himself as a one-armed man, the left sleeve of his jacket neatly tucked into the pocket. He opened his eyes. "Holy God," he said, aloud. He closed his eyes. Make your mind a blank, he thought, and did so.

After a time, he heard a voice asking softly, "You awake, fella?"

He opened his eyes. A Lieutenant-Colonel, wearing summer issue and a stethoscope, was standing beside him.

"Yes, sir."

"How are you?"

"All right."

"Good," said the Lieutenant-Colonel, reaching down to take his pulse.

He tried to smile as he said, "I seem to be missing something."

"Afraid so. But let's be – pulse normal – glad it's something you can do without."

"Oh, sure."

"I don't want to stand here and pour platitudes all over you, son, but – fact is, it could've been worse."

"Yes, sir."

"Feel well enough to travel?"

"I guess so."

"Fine. I'll see if I can ship you tomorrow or the day after."

"Thank you, sir."

"Major Russo's been around a few times. He's coming back again this afternoon."

"He OK?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Care for a knockout?"

"No, thanks. I better start getting used to myself, here."

"Try not to tense up."

"No, sir."

The Lieutenant-Colonel moved off.

He did try. He relaxed, systematically and scientifically, but kept shivering, and breaking out in a sweat from time to time. He wondered if his parents had been informed. Marion? Pamela? Pamela. Marion.

• •

Major Russo turned up shortly after supper.

They shook hands.

"How are y' Roj?"

"Ok now, sir."

Tears flooded the Major's eyes. "Don't 'sir' me, you bastard," he said. "There's a limit to how much embarrassment I can handle."

The Major got out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. The nurse brought him a chair.

"Care to sit down, Major?" she asked.

"Thanks."

He sat down. The nurse left.

"Can I smoke in here?"

"Everybody seems to," said Roger.

Major Russo lit a cigarette. He and Roger looked at each other.

"How the hell did you do it, Roj?" asked the Major. "Swear to God, if I (continued on page 146) None But The Brave (continued from page 133) hadn't seen it I wouldn't've believed it."

"Some sort of crazy reflex, I guess. I've been thinking about it myself. It was like – well, sort of reverse behaviorism, if you get what I mean."

"I don't know if I do."

"Well, normally – you think of performing an action, then you perform it."

"Yes?"

"But this was – well, I did it, and later on the thought caught up with me in the middle of it." He smiled. "But the funny thing, the thought said not to – but by then it was too late – I was out there."

"Didn't you hear me yelling at you to stay put?"

They exchanged a long look. Roger said, "No. No, I didn't."

"OK."

"How are they, by the way?"

"Five of them, yes. The one guy didn't make it."

"With the chest wound?"

"That's the one."

"I didn't think he would. Not in the ditch. If he could've been got right onto a table, maybe."

"Well, think of the five, Roj."

"Sure."

They said nothing more until the Major finished his cigarette and stamped it out in an ashtray belonging to Roger's neighbor.

"Roj, I know it won't make up for your – well, anything – but there's a hell of a chance for you to get a hot citation. Maybe some kind of a medal, even. The recommendation's started up already, in fact. It's got about 60 eyewitness signatures on it and General Oleson – I talked to him – he says you're a cinch. Not that it'll make up for anything."

"Nice if it happens."

"He says you're a cinch. He told me." The Major rose. "Well, kid, I'll blow. Everybody sends their regards."

"Mine, too."

"I'll try to get in to see you tomorrow."

"Fine. Wait a second. The Colonel here said something about I may be shipping tomorrow."

"Oh."

"So—"

"Yuh." The Major paused, in thought. "Well, I better say it now – in case I don't see you for a while. Roger, I want to tell you, you're the finest Joe I've come across so far in my life. You've got character and you've got the kind of courage I thought was only in the movies. I hope to hell you get every break in the book from now on."

"Thanks, Major," said Roger. "But that's quite a spiel to a guy whose reflexes just happened to go cockeyed on him."

"Don't reflex me, you bastard," replied the Major. "I love you."

He walked off, swiftly.

Roger thought about the citation – maybe some kind of a medal, even – for a time. He wondered if there were any that carried money with them.

That evening, he learned that his parents had been informed that he had been wounded but was out of danger.

When the Red Cross girl came by, he sent reassuring cables to his parents, and to Marion.

• • •

Three days later, in the hospital near Godalming, Surrey, England, he asked for an interview with Lieutenant-Colonel Hauge, the commanding officer. He needed some personal advice. Colonel Hauge suggested that they meet for a drink in the officers' bar. Music from the jukebox provided a gay background for their conversation.

"I finished my second pre-med year," explained Roger. "Passed everything but Physiology Two. Missed that by a hair."

"Even so, wouldn't your deferment have stood up?"

"Maybe. But I quit anyway and got going. I didn't see the point at the time."

"I see."

"I was going to specialize in surgery, but I guess that's out now, wouldn't you say, Colonel?"

"I should think so," replied the Colonel, stirring his bourbon old fashioned.

"That's what I thought," continued Roger. "I guess you can be a one-armed just about anything but surgeon, huh?"

"Or ballet dancer."

"Here's the question, Colonel. Do you think I ought to forget about medicine altogether?"

"Hell, no!"

"Even, say, general practice. Could I handle it with – the way I am? Wouldn't it be a handicap?"

"But not a stopper. Anyway, what's so delicious about general practice? Why not research? Pick yourself a part of the body and stay with it."

"Thanks, Colonel. I'll think about that."

"Listen, boy. A fellow with your kind of courage isn't going to be stopped by an accident."

"Well—"

"Anyhow, when you get ZIed, you're going to see about getting yourself rigged, aren't you? Those guys are working wonders these days. I saw a fellow with both of them gone thread a needle, so help me God."

"Colonel. This is a little off the subject, but do you have any idea how long I'll be around here?"

"Not offhand. General policy, amputees – excuse me – get a pretty good priority. But right now there seems to be a jam. A few weeks, say."

"No hurry."

"They treating you all right?"

"Like a king," said Roger.

"One more?"

"No, thank you, sir. I've got some of that deep thinking to do."

They smiled together, shook hands, and separated.

• • •

On Sunday, Pamela came down from London to see him. The day before had been difficult. She had sounded so calm on the telephone, unruffled. He would have preferred hysteria. This way, he was afraid he might have to deal with it when they met face to face.

He had his hair cut, and a manicure, making a joke about shouldn't it be half price. He had his uniform pressed, his shoes shined, and obtained a pass to leave the hospital grounds. He waited on the veranda of the main building.

At 11 o'clock in the morning, the crowded visitors' bus drove up and stopped.

He saw her at once, that red hair making her easy to pick out. He walked over to the bus. She waved at him through the window and mouthed something that he could not understand. He frowned, shrugged, and smiled.

A moment later, they embraced. With his one arm about her, Roger felt oddly impotent. It made the embrace seem casual. He blushed. They kissed, and nothing else seemed to matter.

"I very nearly fell away when I saw you standing there," she said.

"Why?"

"I thought surely you'd be in bed. I've been rehearsing a smashing bedside manner all the way down."

"Well, I'll get right in if you want."

"Please don't," she laughed.

"You hungry?"

"Not a bit, but I'd adore a cup of tea."

"Naturally," he teased. "Come on. There's a PX. We can sit awhile before we go into town for lunch."

"We can?" she asked, amazed.

"Why not?"

"Oh, ducky, that's marvelous!"

"Marvelous? What's that mean – 'wizard'?"

She held his right arm, tightly, as they walked to the PX.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Better than I remembered. How do I?"

"The same ol' wonderful."

"I love you, Roger," she said, and kissed his shoulder as they walked.

"What there is of me."

"Now, now," she said, "none of that. There's quite enough."

They sat down to tea. He took out a package of cigarettes, shook one half-out (continued on page 205) None But The Brave (Continued from page 146) and offered it to her.

"Surprise," she said. "I've stopped again."

"Oh, no!"

"This time for good."

"Want to bet? Say, $14,000 just to make it interesting?"

"How much is that in actual money?" she asked.

"Get this," he said. He put the cigarette into his mouth. She reached for a match. "Uh-uh," he admonished. "Watch." He got out a paperbook of matches, and, using his one hand, bent a match, flicked it with his thumb, lit it, and carried the flame to his cigarette. He bounced his eyebrows. "Not bad, eh?"

"Why, it's like being out with a conjurer!" she said, impressed.

They talked. She insisted upon knowing every detail of what had happened. Roger was less than eager to dwell on it, but she was hungry to know. She drew him out, skillfully, with a string of questions, until she was updated, including his talk with Colonel Hauge.

Roger said, "Now about you."

"I'm afraid I'm still cutting those food shorts." (She was a film editor, working in the Films Division of The Ministry of Information.) "And I'm going potty! They're all the same! I stare into that editola and it's like having the same dream again and again."

"Tough."

She squinted at him. "Are you pulling my leg?" she inquired. "I can't tell without my specs on and I've no intention of putting them on."

"No, honest."

"Well, then. I've written to Mr. Beddington and he's going to see me on Thursday. I have it all planned. I mean to burst into tears."

"That ought to do it."

"So when I come to see you next Sunday, I'll be able to – – " She stopped. "Roger," she asked, quietly, "will you be here next Sunday?"

"According to Colonel Hauge, yes."

"Oh, thank God," she murmured. "Oh, thank You, God." She began to cry.

"Hey, baby! Hey!" He leaned over and tried to kiss her. "Hey," he whispered, "you've got me mixed up – I'm not Mr. Beddington!"

She laughed and cried as she said, "I'm sorry. Oh, I am a bloody fool. It was just – it was the not knowing and – – ."

"I know, Pam. Take it easy."

In the bus to town, they held hands and did not speak, reveling in their closeness, and in their shared joy of being together whatever the circumstances.

The inn was crowded with Sunday diners, and they waited in the bar for a table, drinking Pimm's Cups.

"Darling," she said. "Practically speaking, what do you think is going to happen?"

"I tried to find out," he answered. "But it's all a little on the vague side. Sooner or later, though, I'm bound to be ZIed."

"What does that mean?"

"Sent home."

"Why 'Zled'? Is that what you said?"

"Zone of the Interior."

"Oh, I see. ZI."

"Then I go to some rehabilitation bash and get issued a flipper and learn to use it and that's that."

"What about me?"

"I've been thinking about that, Pam."

There was a pause.

"And what have you decided?" she asked.

"To ask for a two-week pass so I can come up to London and be with you and see if we can decide something together."

"I don't need two weeks. Or two minutes."

"You do, baby."

"No. But wouldn't it be grand if I could get a leave at the same time, and we could go somewhere? Do you know Clovelly?"

"No."

"It's heaven. On the west coast – a fishing village – and old. Hardly any cars – donkey carts, mostly – and the most exquisite lobster – oh, I forgot – you hate lobster."

"That's all right. I'll eat the donkeys."

"Listen," she said. "We're going! I won't ask for a leave – they might say no. I'll be ill."

"This is patriotic?" he said.

"Yes."

"How do you figure?"

"Something to do with winning the peace."

"And Anglo-American relations."

"Quite."

They ordered another drink.

"And Roger."

"Babe?"

"When are we going to be married?"

He shook out another cigarette and this time, preoccupied, allowed her to light it for him.

"You sure you want to?" he asked.

"It's all I want."

"Even with me like this?"

"Please don't be silly."

"We have to think it out, baby. It isn't the same. I may not be able to – – "

"But didn't Colonel What's-his-name say – – ?"

"He might've been giving me the ol' ramrod."

"No matter. When I get to be the first greatest lady film director in history you won't have to do anything but count our money."

"If you knew my arithmetic – – " He stopped.

"When, Roj?" she urged. "When are we?"

The hostess came over.

"I have your table now. Thank you for waiting."

They followed her into the dining room, and were seated at a table in the corner. The hostess gave them menus and moved off. They looked at each other. The question was still in her eyes.

"Pretty damn soon!" he replied.

She tried to speak, but could not. All her energy was being spent in holding back tears.

Roger felt giddy.

Finally, she managed: "Yes, Thank you. I accept."

The following day, after his two-week pass had been approved, he made a formal inquiry about marriage regulations. He was given permit forms to fill out, He was given permit forms to fill out,and some for Pamela. The matter was in hand.

• • •

Clovelly was all she had promised. With each quiet, remote day, Roger felt stronger and more certain of his decision. He sent postcards home and one morning, while Pamela was washing her hair, he went to the post office and sent one to Marion. He wrote:

Dear,

Here for short rest and holiday and feeling well. Should have news of plans soon. All love.

R

He sweated and shivered as he wrote it.

That afternoon, Pamela casually suggested a swim. Roger looked at her, unbelievingly. Had his problem slipped her mind? He heard himself agreeing.

The moment before his first dive from the boat, he said, "This is a damn fool thing to do." He went over. For half a minute, he struggled in the water, off-balance, while Pamela watched him, her face splotched by apprehension. He turned over and floated on his back, smiling. Ten minutes later, he had found a way. She joined him in the water and they played porpoises.

After that, they swam daily. On the day before their last, he slipped while climbing back into the boat, and gashed his stump on the oarlock. They hurried back to the inn. Pamela went to the chemist's for iodine and bandages. She returned to find him in a rage. It was his first accident in the new situation and it had unnerved him. She dressed the wound, but suggested sending for the local doctor.

"No!" he said, sharply."

"But why not, darling?"

"Because no! I'm not going to have some old limey sawbones messing around with my arm. My arm!" he repeated with a mad laugh.

"It's stopped bleeding."

"I'll be back at the hospital day after tomorrow, so what the hell."

"Please, darling."

"Please, what?"

"Accidents happen."

"Especially to me. They're going to happen to me from now on. All the time."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm going to take a walk."

"Wouldn't it be better to rest awhile?"

"No, it wouldn't."

He walked off his unreasoning tension and returned to the inn, contrite.

"Don't think about it," she said.

"Baby, you think you're going to be able to put up with me?"

"Well," she said, smiling, "I'm going to have a jolly good go!"

• • •

Early the following week, the cut infected, and his orders for departure were delayed. He was running a temperature and was confined to bed. With empty time before him, he decided at last to write a letter to Marion.

He asked the Red Cross girl to buy him some stationery and a fountain pen.

"Isn't that rather extravagant?" she asked. "We can supply all that."

"I know," he said. "But I want plain paper and my own pen. I've got my reasons."

"Suit yourself, my boy," she said, and went off on the errand.

Dear Marion,

Well, I'm still here in the hospital, but feeling OK. I would have been out a week ago and on my way to the States except for a stupid piece of carelessness that caused a little complication. Nothing bad.

Marion, I should have written you seriously about our situation long before this, and I ask you to forgive me because I had other problems to face, too. It is just this. In view of what has happened, I think that we would be well advised to call off our arrangement. There is no reason why you should be saddled with a cripple and at this point I do not even Know what I am going to be able to manage to – –

He stopped writing and reread what he had written thus far. It seemed awful. Worse, it seemed cowardly. What would all those friends think, the ones who were trying to get him a medal? Well, he thought, there are kinds and kinds of courage and just now he wished he had the kind that would make it possible to deal with this situation. He threw away what he had written, thought for a while, and began again.

Dear Marion,

This is one hell of a hard letter to write. And I only hope as I begin it that it won't turn out to be an impossible one to write.

Maybe it would be best to start with the end and work backwards. The point is, I feel we must break off our engagement.

As to the reasons – there is a saying by somebody, I think it was Mark Twain – "When in doubt, tell the truth." (How I am so erudite is that this is the quotation Miss O'Neill wrote in my autograph book when I was graduated from B.H.S.!)

It would be easy to give you a lot of cock-and-bull about how why should you be saddled with less than a full man, etc., but this would not be true and you are one wonderful girl and have been a great friend to me and so you deserve the truth even though it may be painful to us both for the time being. So here goes.

A little over a year ago, at an affair at The English-Speaking Union, I met a girl, an English girl named Pamela Relph – –

He stopped again, stared at the name he had written, and began to reread the letter. Long before he came to the last part, he knew that it would not do and so destroyed it.

He put away his writing materials, and made plans to write the letter after supper. This, he argued, would give him time to think it out properly.

After supper, he began again, this time with confidence.

Dear friend Marion,

He crumpled the sheet and began again.

Dearest friend Marion,

I think we must call it off between us. There are several reasons for this, which I will tell you when I see you which I hope will be soon. Try to understand. It is all for the best. I know this sounds blunt, but it is not a question of making a decision. Of course, you may be relieved for all I know. I sure hope so. It is not my fault and God knows not yours – it is just the way things happen in times like these. I shall always think of you fondly and hope you can find it in your heart to do the same. I will see you as soon as I get back. I know that we must remain friends always. After all this time, it is hard to imagine my life without you in it.

Please give my best regards to your mother and to Bud (I am bringing him quite a souvenir).

That is all for today. I'll write again soon. In fact, tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Roger

He reread the letter several times. Each time it seemed better to him, and admirably straightforward. He addressed an envelope, folded the letter into it, stamped it, and had it censored blind after explaining, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't read this one, Captain. It's really personal." He sealed it and put it into his pocket but did not mail it. Not yet, he thought. Tomorrow.

But tomorrow enveloped him in new excitement.

It began shortly after breakfast. Colonel Hauge came into the ward and went directly to Roger's bed. Roger's saw him coming and wondered what was up. The Colonel held out his hand. He seemed flushed. Roger took his hand.

"Congratulations, son. Your folks'll be damned proud of you. All of us are."

"What?"

"If you ask me, the medics never have got their share of Congressionals. This is a start, anyhow."

"Colonel, I don't know anything about any of this."

The Colonel looked surprised. "I thought you did."

"No, sir."

"Well, then." The Colonel smiled. "I have the honor to inform you, Sergeant Ballas, that you've won – been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor."

"The – – ?" He could not go on.

He and the Colonel shook. hands again. The Colonel spoke.

"I understand the investiture 'll be on the 18th. You got a nice, clean uniform?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

Thus began a day filled with hand shakes and backslaps, wires and cables, newspaper photographers and Signal Corps photographers, and the crew from the Armed Forces Network with their portable tape recorder.

Colonel Hauge sent Roger a box of cigars, which he distributed to his ward-mates.

A cable from his parents arrived in the late afternoon; and in the evening, one from Marion. It read: Thrilled Thrilled Thrilled But Frantic No Word For Twelve Days Anxious Worried Troubled Beg You Cable And Write At Once Love You Love You Love You Marion.

He replied by cable, saying: Letter On Way Love Roger.

He thought about his letter to her again and decided to wait until morning before posting it. It might have to be revised, in view of this development. How? Why?

He did not sleep that night. A little after three, the night nurse stopped by his bed.

"All right?" she whispered.

"Fine, thanks."

"Want a sleeper?"

"No. Rather be up."

"Wonderful news. Three cheers."

"Thank you."

She left him to his whirling thoughts.

In the morning, he received permission to get up and dress. He went for a long walk in the fields nearby. He talked to himself, softly. He sat down in the grass, lay back, turned over, and pressed his forehead into the turf. He rolled onto his back again, looking at the swift-moving clouds.

"Got to," he said. "Got to."

When he returned to the hospital, Pamela was there waiting for him. She wore a new frock, new hat, new everything, it seemed. She looked ravishing.

"Darling!" she exclaimed, as they embraced. "Isn't it something? I'm so very – – . When do you actually – – ?"

"Eighteenth, I think."

"Very well, then," she said pulling away and straightening his tie. "We'll change the arrangements. Instead of the 15th, we'll make our event the 19th. The day after."

"Why?"

"Seems properer somehow. Listen to me! More proper, I mean."

"You sound real experienced in this wedding bash."

"I do?"

"Never mind. Anything you say."

"I'm coming to the – you know, the ceremony or whatever it's called."

"Thank you."

"Will it be General Eisenhower, do you suppose?"

"I'll insist on it."

"Do."

"Drink? Tea?"

"One of each, please."

"Into town."

"Have you a pass?"

"You forget who I am, lady. I'm a hero. I don't need a pass."

They spent the rest of the day in town. Late in the afternoon, he put her on the London train.

"Sunday," she said.

"I'll be here."

They kissed goodbye.

He walked back to the hospital and noted that he was breaking into periodic sweats again. An alcohol rub, he prescribed in his mind. Yes, he thought, as soon as I've mailed this letter. At the A.P.O. he stopped, waited about for a while, turned, and made for the lounge. He sat at a writing desk and thought. He got out the letter, read it, and lit a match to it.

He wrote another.

Dearest Marion,

Please forgive the delay. The fact is, I have not been feeling too well. I went down to that place called Clovelly with a friend of mine (hope you got my postcard from there) and all went well until I, like a jerk, put a slice in my shoulder. It infected (damned rusty oarlock) so there I was back in bed for a week. OK now. Waiting for orders. Should be soon.

Then there was all the excitement about the Big Deal. Thank you for your cable and for all the letters. I treasure them and can't tell you how much they mean to me.

About the honor. It certainly was a surprise to me. I am grateful but between ourselves, do not feel I rate it. However, that is not for me to decide.

I miss you terribly and worry about how my condition is going to affect us. I pray that you will be frank with me. Anyhow, we'll be able to talk it over soon. However soon it is won't be soon enough for me, sweetheart.

Give my love to your mother and tell Bud I've got a pretty spectacular souvenir for him.

And you – I love you with all my heart and hope you do me.

As ever,

Roger

He had the letter censored, and posted.

He walked slowly to the ward, undressed, went out to the shower room, and gave himself an alcohol rub.

He returned to the ward and got into bed to wait for supper. He was shivering. He stopped it by relaxing.

He thought: Awful, awful. Shabby. How could you? To Marion of all people. All she's done for you. Been to you. Couldn't do anything else. Not now. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. The hell you say. Well, sometime. Just not now. After the 19th. After I've definitely done it I'll tell here. No, you won't. I will. Anyhow, what's the difference? She'll find out. She's bound to. Sometime. Somehow.

His thoughts began to taunt him. What a hero! Brave. What a man of courage! What kind of courage? The Congressional Medal of Honor.

"I'll never wear it!" he said aloud, not to himself, but to the world. "I'll never put it on. I swear to God!"

The nurse was at his side, bending over him, smoothing his brow, and whispering, "All right, Sergeant. Sshh. All right. Everything is all right."

He started shivering again.