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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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I
t didn't seem to matter much. The party moved on. The orange card had simply become a part of the Great Mystery that had gone on since Creation.
The nurse lagged behind for a moment, smiled at him, and tucked the blanket around his shoulders.
“Try to move around a bit, John,” she urged. “Breathe deep. We have to get you moving.”
She cares, he thought, and his heart was good for a moment, as he slipped back to sleep. He was too tired to follow her suggestions.
 
The next morning, he woke with the sickly sweet smell of incense again in his nostrils. The priest was across the aisle, mumbling over another patient in another bed. John could see the chart at the foot of that bed, and its orange card. He dozed off again, only to be wakened by the nurse.
“John … Wake up. This is the Army chaplain, Father O'Reilly. He's come to see you … .”
John was wide awake now, the figure of the robed priest looming above him like the specter in his worst nightmares. The little incense pot on its silver chain swung back and forth in front of his eyes.
“Bless you, my son,” Father O'Reilly said.
John was wide awake, now, and his anger was rising.
“I'm not your son!” he screamed. “I am Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull. I'm
not even Catholic.” Desperately, he turned to the nurse. “Get this son of a bitch away from me!” he pleaded.
“Now, calm down, John,” said the nurse. “He's only here to help you.”
“Like hell, he is! He wants to put me under, like he did the others. Get him out of here!”
The chaplain shrugged and turned away, followed by the nurse. They withdrew a few steps and engaged in conversation, then moved on down the aisle.
John sank back on his pillow, soaked with sweat and breathing hard. The effort had completely exhausted him.
After a little while, Nurse Jackson returned, and brought a cup of soup. She sat in a chair next to the bed.
“Now, let's try some of this, John.”
“I'm too tired. Maybe later …”
“All right. But a little bit for now. Try it for me.”
He was weak and still shaking from the rage he had just experienced, but she steadied his head and handled the spoon skillfully. The broth slid down smoothly, and the warmth was good in spite of the soreness in his throat. With much help and encouragement, he managed to take most of the cup of broth.
“Good!” praised the nurse. “Now, get some rest. I'll be back later.”
He was already nearly asleep.
 
By the next morning, the empty beds vacated by the fatalities of the day were occupied by two new victims of the flu. John paid little attention. He had slept soundly after the exertion of the incident with the priest. That puzzled him a little. He had been dimly aware that in the Army there were chaplains: preachers, so to speak, for soldiers of various faiths. There must have been a misunderstanding of some sort. If John had a deep-seated faith of any kind, it certainly was not Roman Catholic. If he had been asked about his religion, he didn't know what he would have said. He still had great respect for the old ways of his people. But, in recent years, he had had little contact with any form of religion. The fast-moving life on the Wild West Show circuit, the travel, the long trips … His life with the Hundred and One had not lent itself well to either the ways of his people, or to the Protestant ethic of the mission schools. He could not even remember some of the more recent years.
He watched suspiciously as the priest entered on his grim daily rounds … . Up the aisle, speaking here and there to a patient, a casual nod or gesture. John was watching more closely now. He had become personally involved.
The priest stopped at a bed with an orange tag at the far end of the room and performed his ritual.
Too bad
, thought John, as the sprinkling and mumbling proceeded. He felt his anger rising.
One other stop for last rites on the way back down this side of the aisle,
and the priest moved on toward where John lay, tense and angry. Without hesitation, he stepped between John's bed and that of the obnoxious Schwarz.
“Bless you, my son—,” he began.
John flew into a rage.
“Get away from me, you bastard!” he screamed. “You're not sendin' me across!”
He rose on one elbow.
“Now, now,” soothed the chaplain. “I'm here to help … .”
John turned to the nurse, who stood pale and wide-eyed at the foot of the bed.
“Get him away!” he yelled.
The priest turned to the nurse.
“I'll come back later.”
“Like hell!” John screamed.
He grabbed a nearly empty soup cup from the bedside stand and threw it. The priest tried to dodge, but the heavy ceramic mug struck him on the shoulder, splattering liquid across his face and robe. Calmly, he wiped his cheek with a sleeve and turned away.
Nurse Jackson paused at John's side.
“I'll
be back later,” she whispered softly.
“Okay …”
He was dog-tired from the exertion, and sank back to sleep.
 
When he woke, it was in the quiet of the afternoon. Most of the major activity of the wards seemed to be centered around mornings, he now realized. The doctors' rounds, the medications, enemas and footbaths and sweats, administered by orderlies and medics. There were apparently two nurses, one who seemed to be assigned to another ward across the central corridor, on the other side of the building. The nurses occasionally helped each other if a male orderly was not at hand to do some of the heavier tasks.
He was still confused, but began to notice things that had escaped his attention before. He was still quite weak, and his thinking still muddled. He was quite frustrated that he could do little more than lift his head or raise to an elbow for a few moments. Such weakness was not a manly thing, and was little short of ridiculous.
Later that afternoon, Schwarz was transferred to an ambulatory ward somewhere, to continue his recovery. He complained loudly all the way.
“I ain't well, Jackson,” he howled. “Don't let 'em kick me out. I'm a sick man.”
“Come on, Schwarz!” The nurse laughed. “You know you're ready to go. Enough of your goldbricking. You need some fresh air and exercise.”
“I'll probably have a relapse,” whined the malingerer. “You'll be sorry when I'm dead.”
“You're a long way from dead, Schwarz!” scolded the nurse. “Go on, now. Good luck to you.”
He went out the door, still mumbling. A few of the stronger patients applauded, and the ward settled down again. By evening, Schwarz's bed was occupied again by a very sick patient.
 
The next morning John awoke feeling a little more alert.
Maybe I'm better
, he decided. He attempted to sit up and decided that it was a false impression. He was still far too weak, and it was not worth the effort, even to breathe more deeply. It was painful to do so, and his head whirled. He felt as he had when he'd fainted out by the flagpole … . The buzzing in his ears, his vision swimming and blurring.
I'll never be well
, he thought dejectedly as he sank back, his breathing shallow to protect against the pain in his chest. Sleep came again. Time seemed meaningless, and he didn't care if it was night or day.
 
Once more, he was wakened and roused slightly when the doctors came on rounds, and dozed off when they left. He paid little attention to their conversation. He didn't much care.
 
The next time he wakened, it was again in what had become a familiar ritual. He was approached by the priest with his dark, threatening robe and smoking incense, who loomed above him in a dreamlike episode.
“Don't come near me!” John yelled. “Jackson! Help me. Get this dog shit away from me!”
“Be calm, son,” crooned the priest. “I'm here to help.”
“Bullshit!” screamed John. “You killed that fella yesterday! Leave me alone, you fat bastard!”
The priest shook his head, puzzled, and moved on.
 
There was yet one more incident when the priest attempted to carry out his ritual, with the same result. John did not become physically violent, but it was largely because of caution on the part of the chaplain. John merely cursed him at a distance.
The next day after that, the priest maintained a careful space between them. He merely nodded from the aisle as he passed. John Buffalo, already up on his elbows and ready to hurl obscenities, settled back with a barely audible curse under his breath.
The one bright spot in his gloomy world was the golden-haired nurse. She was helpful and kind to everyone. The medics and orderlies seemed to have the highest respect for her. She had a rare quality occasionally found in special people: She made everyone feel better. Nurse Jackson could enter the ward, her presence and her smile lighting the day, and every man there felt that she had come especially to see
him
. It was not a matter of competition for her attention. There was enough of the gift to go around. As the people of John's early childhood years might have said, “She has a powerful medicine.” She could even carry it off without creating jealousy among those in her care—possibly the most difficult task of all.
 
He was gaining a little strength, but progress was slow. Each morning patients at one stage of recovery were subjected to a treatment called “cupping,” intended to remove secretions from the lungs which might have accumulated through the night. The doctors referred in this connection to “postural drainage.” In simplest terms, it involved the patient's lying prone across the narrow cot, with shoulders and arms lower than the bed's surface. Cupping his palms, an orderly would beat a tattoo on the back of the patient's chest to start the thick secretions flowing. The patient would begin to cough, expectorating large quantities of foul yellow sputum.
“It helps prevent pneumonia,” Nurse Jackson explained.
Some of John's wardmates had earthier explanations.
“If you don't cough up enough, they'll pound the hell out of you,” stated one experienced individual.
“Naw, it ain't that,” argued another soldier. “Them orderlies just like to beat the snot out of a helpless patient.”
The orderly grinned. “That's right, Kesterson,” he jibed. “More fun to pound on some guys than others. But you're gettin' well, ain't you?”
V
ery special to John were the rare times when Nurse Jackson would assist him in eating. He was not strong enough yet to sit up and handle regular food for an entire meal. From the beginning, she had been instrumental in inducing him to eat. She had become so special to him that he would have done almost anything to please her. How could he have refused the request of an angel to drink the broth or finish the gruel in his breakfast bowl?
And he was better now. He could tell, it was actually happening. His appetite improved. Not only was he able to chew better food, but his sense of taste was returning. Some things actually tasted good.
“John, tell me about you,” she said one day as she assisted him with his food. It was the first meal he had been offered that would have to be cut with a knife and fork, so it was a special occasion. He was tired before he finished cutting, so Nurse Jackson had stopped to help him.
“Not much to tell, ma'am,” he said, embarrassed.
“You've been a cowboy?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
He was possibly more embarrassed than even his basic shyness would have demanded. He could not forget that he had actually cursed a holy man in the presence of this angel. She had never mentioned it, but it hung there between them every day.
It was especially bad when the chaplain made his rounds. Sometimes the priest would make eye contact, and John could feel the disapproval like a living thing between them. Usually Nurse Jackson would accompany the priest, and
John scrupulously avoided
her
gaze. He fully expected that some day, he must face a scolding from her about his behavior. Until then, maybe his punishment would merely be the guilt that he felt when he saw the dark, disapproving glance of the priest.
“You enlisted here,” the nurse was saying. “Are you from this area, John?”
“No, ma'am. Dakota, originally.”
“But you're educated.”
“Yes, ma'am. Indian schools. Carlisle, Haskell.”
“I see. But you cowboyed here?”
“Well, no. In Wyoming. I knew Captain McCoy, worked for him a little while. But I didn't know he was here.”
“Wait a minute, John. You're confusing me. You started to cowboy in Wyoming?”
“Oh, no. At the 101 Ranch.”
“The Wild West Show?”
“Yes, ma'am … Most of the time. I left them for a couple of years to work with the Olympics.”
Now he was becoming quite uncomfortable. He was afraid that it would sound as if he were bragging.
“Never mind,” he said. “It wasn't much.”
The look in the eyes of the nurse was one of puzzled astonishment. She started to ask something else, but apparently changed her mind.
John did not see real doubt, only curiosity, but he was glad when she changed the subject.
“John, about tomorrow, I think you're ready to sit up in a chair. That sound pretty good?”
“Yes, ma'am!”
He smiled at her.
“Good!” she said. “I like to see that smile, John.”
She rose and moved on, to help someone else, but the heart of John Buffalo was good.
 
His first few shaky steps the next day were accomplished with the help of the nurse on one side and one of the orderlies on the other. John felt that they half-carried him to the chair. He was exhausted when it was accomplished.
It could not have been done without the help of the beautiful nurse. The sensation of her arm around his body, her shoulder against his chest, and the softness of her breast as it touched him …
Aiee!
All the weakness and discomfort of his aching body, the protest of muscles unused for a long time vanished in the ecstasy of the moment. Just then, he could have accomplished anything.
It took some time simply to recover and restore his labored breathing to normal again. Back in bed, he felt as tired as if he had just done a day's work.
It
was
a day's work, he realized. About all he could handle with the help of two healthy people. He slept well that night, with the sleep of exhaustion and work well done.
 
The move to the chair the next day was accomplished with more of his own effort and less assistance. He faced a real dilemma now. He wanted to do well to please the nurse with whom he was rapidly falling in love. But if he did well and became more self-sufficient, he would no longer need her physical help, the steadying of her strong arm and shoulder around his body. Yet he would have done anything to avoid faking a weakness he did not feel.
However, John
did
feel that they were growing closer. Somehow, the smile that she gave him was different, from her routine cheer for others, or from her professional smile for the doctors and orderlies. At first he could not make himself believe such good fortune, but it was undeniably true.
She made occasions to talk to him and seemed genuinely interested in his many varied experiences. She laughed with delight at some of the events on the road with the Hundred and One. There was no question that he grew and expanded as a storyteller with such a delightful audience of one.
One morning she had wheeled him outside in a high-backed wheelchair for a breath of fresh air.
“Nurse Jackson,” he said, “I am tired of calling you that. Do you have a name?”
She actually blushed, which John found quite charming in such a capable woman.
“Seriously,” he went on. “I am made to think that we are more to each other than nurse and patient.”
This frankness was very difficult for him.
The nurse shrugged. “We are friends, yes?”
“More than that, I think,” he said seriously. “I think I am falling in love.”
Her face was scarlet now.
“John,” she said gently, “every soldier who has been sick or wounded falls in love with his nurse.”
“I have heard this,” he admitted, “but I think we have more than that, you and I.”
She was silent for a long time.
“Maybe so,” she said softly. “But, back to your question. Do I have a name? Yes … Ruth. But it is not considered good manners for a patient to call his nurse by name … Publicly, that is.”
“And privately?”
He had to know.
“I … I don't know how it could be prevented,” she murmured.
Now his heart soared.
“John, have you a wife? You've never said.”
“No …”
“Ever
been
married?”
He was unsure how to answer that. His relationship with Hebbie, over a period of years, had been more durable and loyal than many marriages.
“Well … Not a church marriage. No ceremony. We were together.”
“Were?”
“She is dead,” said John. “I guess we were more married than most.”
“A common-law marriage, then? She was a lucky girl to have you, John,” Ruth Jackson said softly.
“I dunno about that,” he muttered self-consciously.
He sensed that she wanted to tell him something, but did not know how. How could he …
Ah!
“Have you ever been married?” he asked.
The clear blue eyes looked deep into his.
“John, I
am
married.
Mrs
. Ruth Jackson. You must not fall in love with me. We can be friends—nothing more.”
“But … Where is your husband? How could he
leave
you?”
“He didn't leave me, John. He had to go. He's in France, fighting the Kaiser. Lieutenant Emil Jackson.”
“I … I'm sorry, Mrs. Jackson. I had no idea. I apologize if I've offended you … .”
She laughed, now, her soft throaty chuckle like music to his ears. Or maybe, spring water over polished pebbles.
“You had no way of knowing, John. I should have told you, but I didn't realize … At least, not …”
“It's okay,” he murmured.
But it wasn't. His heart was very heavy.
“Friends?” she asked.
She stuck out a hand toward him, and he took it in a friendly shake—a strong, capable grip, one he could appreciate.
“Friends!” he repeated huskily.
They were quiet for a little while.
“We'd better get back to the ward,” she said. “It's getting late.”
She turned his chair and they started back toward the building.
“Shall I call you Mrs. Jackson?” he asked, half-teasing.
“If you like,” she answered in the same tone. Then, somewhat wistfully, she went on. “Or ‘Ruth.' I have no one to call me that just now. But not publicly. There would be some, maybe, who'd try to read more into it than friendship.”
“Okay, Ruth. Friends … Friends
only
.”
 
 
Their friendship was comfortable. Bringing it into the light of day had illuminated the thoughts and feelings of both. They could now relax and enjoy each other's company without pressure, but with understanding. Friends. Nothing more.
“When can I go back to duty?” John asked one afternoon when she had taken him outside in the wheelchair.
“Are you in a hurry?” she teased.
Then she relented.
“Forgive me, John. It was an honest question. You're feeling a lot better. But the flu is treacherous. Try too much, too quick, and it's almost like starting over. You don't want
that
, do you?”
“I'd get to be here longer.”
“Stop that!” she scolded, but with a smile.
“Okay, I understand. But what happens next?”
“You go to an ambulatory ward. What the medics call the ‘walking wounded.' You can do a lot of things for yourself now. There are calisthenics to get your strength back. You'll do a lot of things for yourself.”
“Do they dress?”
She laughed.
“You're pretty tired of underwear and a robe, aren't you?”
“Right!”
“Well, you'll probably wear fatigues.”
“Good.”
 
There came a day before that transfer, however, when Ruth approached his bed with a gleam of mischief in her eye. It was mid-afternoon. Many of the patients, exhausted from morning activities, were napping.
John had been dozing comfortably and was dimly aware that someone had come down the ward's central aisle.
“John, you have a visitor,” Ruth told him.
Instantly, he was wide awake, and a little embarrassed to be caught off guard. But who … How could he have a visitor? The ward was virtually off limits to visitors, to avoid contagion.
The nurse stepped aside, and a burly man in an officer's dress uniform moved forward. John started to rise in a gesture of respect, but the officer motioned him back. John found himself in an awkward, half-sitting position.
Quickly, he tried to understand the situation, gathering what he could from the uniform. A captain's bars at the shoulders … The man looked familiar, but …
“Do I know you, sir?” John asked.
The captain smiled. A face somehow out of context …
“You should,” chuckled the officer.
Just then, in the quick search for identity, John's eyes fastened on the captain's collar insignia, which designated the officer's specialty. The small silver emblem on the khaki lapel was not the crossed sabers of Cavalry, but—
An irrational fear and dread gripped John's heart. The insignia was a small cross. Notcrossed weapons, or the winged medical caduceus, but the simple Christian cross of the clergy. A
chaplain
. Now he recognized the man. John had seen him before only in the robes the priest used for ritual.
“Father O'Reilly,” prompted the chaplain.
John was caught completely off guard.
“I—I—,” he stammered.
He must be guilty of insubordination. He could hardly believe, now, that a few weeks ago, he had actually cursed a superior officer. There must be a court martial awaiting him. And why was the captain taking such
delight
in the shame of an enlisted man? John's anger began to rise over such impropriety.
He might have caused even more trouble, except that at that moment he caught a glimpse of the nurse's face over the captain's shoulder. She was
smiling
.

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