I can’t remember just what it was... maybe an obstacle course we were running or something. But somehow, I sprained my ankle. Bad. Could only hobble on it.
So next morning I turned out for Sick Call. The swelling convinced even Depp’s doubtful eye of the purity of my intentions. And the rightness of my cause.
“You gonna have to wait out in the Battalion Quad,” he said. “A Weapons Carrier will be along soon and take you up to Base Hospital.”
So I was standing at my ease – as much as I could sort of balancing on one leg and all, and pretty soon this ¾-ton showed up and I managed to climb in over the tailgate and sit down. Away we went – it was a good mile, maybe mile and half or even more up to Base Hospital.
When we got there, with one or two fellow sufferers picked up en route, I managed to crawl out over the tailgate and drop to the ground – fortunately not on my bad foot...
We all hobbled inside through the “Emergency” Door, and a number of Medical Orderlies greeted us and dispatched us in our several directions.
They helped me down to “Therapy.” I went in, and a young doctor examined my leg and pronounced it a “genuine” sprain – pretty bad one – and prescribed therapy. Soon thereafter, seated in a wheelchair, I was wheeled into this sort of combined sunroom and whirlbath parlor. There was a long row of these metal whirlbath tubs extending down one side and motors were whirring away pumping hot water through them.
A pretty young Army nurse appeared out of nowhere, and together with a companion, expressed much concern over my leg and they began to massage it and twist it to and fro, and smear it with ointments and various nostrums. “What the heck,” I thought. "This isn’t so bad." The odor of wintergreen filled the air, the sun felt warm on my back. Somewhere a radio was playing – jazz tunes, of course – maybe the highly popular “Don’t Sit Under the Appletree” for all I can recall at this late date.
Then it was time for my soak. I had to remove my trousers and don a loose sort of robe affair. Now everyone was helping me hobble about, and I had a sort of retinue of nurses and orderlies that trailed after with liniment bottles, my pants, towels, and various items required in the overall treatment.
My leg was immersed in the hot, circulating bath. Everyone was most solicitous for my welfare, and that the bath not be too hot (it was just fine!) and not circulating too fast (ditto), and so on. I was provided with some reading matter and left to alternately doze and read the morning away...
Later – more massage, a rubdown with the fuzzy towels, more wintergreen and unguents... the swelling was all but gone! I wished Depp could see me now. Or even First Squad! This man‘s army had a heart after all – it was in the sunroom and massage “parlor” of Base Hospital Sickbay!
My pants were returned in due course, and I was told I was “discharged for the day” but must return tomorrow – just for a checkup. An Orderly helped me lace back up my combat boots - which no one suspected at the present - but were to play a key role in coming events... Combat boots, as we trained in them, were heavy, "inside-turned-outside" soft leather field boots with about 6-inch-high leather wraparound tops that you tucked your pants down into ("bloused" as it was called - as in the order, "Blouse those pants, Soldier!" barked your way, whenever a little, gimlet-eyed Lieutenant might spy you slouching in a doorway or otherwise trying to be as inconspicuous as a fly on the wall...). I was given orders to return next day, and told to turn "my papers" in to my sergeant when I got back, and then led to the door and waved on my way.
It dawned rather slowly on me: there was to be no ride back. This was not part of “therapy.” Once the Hospital doors closed behind you, you were on your own. No matter, now that I had been pronounced nearly as good as new – I set off on my way. Rather gingerly at first, but as the ankle seemed none the worse for wear, soon I was walking jauntily alongside the road that led back down to Battalion. I saluted everyone and everything that even vaguely resembled an officer in the Base traffic going by.
I got back late morning I guess it was. My ankle was hurting a bit again by then but Shucks! Hadn’t I just walked the mile or more back to Battalion and so what was so unusual about that? Infantrymen are born to walk - or in our specific case, made-over to walk. Whatever. You work with what you got to work with.
Scrape... Scrape...
My platoon had just returned from in the field, and so we all went off to the messhall for lunch together – I remember Depp eyeing my presence here in the chowline once again. “Well, I see y’all’s all okay agin’ here,” he said. “And able to eat. (pause) Guess you can join the platoon for instruction this afternoon...”
After lunch we “all’s” went back and sprawled but only briefly on our bunks before Depp’s whistle sounded outside. Everyone jumped up and ran outside to assemble. Everyone but me. Unaccountably, my ankle had begun to swell rather visibly again and was hurting me again, too... To Depp’s query of why was I hobbling out last of all to roll call – I replied that my ankle was still hurting and could I maybe have the afternoon off maybe – just to rest around the barracks and let it “heal up?”
He was dubious, and long familiar with “Guard House Lawyer” tactics as dreamed up by his wily charges as they passed through his care, cycle by cycle.. But even he saw with his own eyes the swelling and all – so granted dispensation – for now.
The afternoon passed pleasantly enough. I think I found a cigar in the bottom of my foot locker - and read some... maybe old copies of LIFE magazine and stuff like that that someone had lying around the barracks. I likely had a snooze (the Infantryman's favorite pastime, past and present). I later stood Retreat with the best of them, when all came trooping in, and was certainly not last - if still least - in the chowline again for supper.
But next morning, I had trouble to stand. Now my ankle was kinda blue - bluish tinge. And visibly swollen again. We were all standing-to by our footlockers after breakfast. Depp was strolling down the line doing a sort of combined toenails - fingernails- palms up - palms down- "peter-parade" check (as to latter, more anon), and general demeanor review of his troops, when he anticipated me several footlockers away... " 'Pears yore laig is mite blue this morning," he said, not looking at me, but ostensibly looking at Ivy Lee Johnson three footlockers down - frozen in place beside same and looking for all the world like one of Pharoh's mummies.... "Is your laig always blue, Private Powell? I thought Yankees only had blue bellies." And other plesantries like that, as he inexorably approached.
He stopped in front of me. "Naow, I jes' bet you gonna tell me that yore laig hurt you so bad this morning that you cain't march on it, right?"
"Well, Sergeant," I said. "Truth to tell, I don't really understand it. It was pretty good up to Taps last nite... but you can see..." I sorta trailed off. He could see.
"Well, you get yore ass up to Base agin' - only cuz I got yore papers here. But I better hear that you are doing everything they tell you to -- and no foolishness." The last three words were emphasized.
With that, he fished his tin whistle up on its cord and blew it almost in my face - precipitating a mild pandemonium as everyone sought to be somewhere else all at once.
They didn't even wave as they marched off...
The 3/4-ton appeared on time, and I climbed in over the gate.
They were waiting for me in Therapy. The whirlpools were whirling and the saucy nurses were nursing, and all was - well, just like home. Almost. I think this day I had coffee with the staff - and other misfortunates with twisted limbs and out-of-kilter joints - which Wheeler's arduous routine produced a-plenty...
Soon, the pleasant smell of wintergreen wafted through the place - the doctor checked my limb but remained curiously noncommittal... "Be a few days," is all he said. The hot whirlpool felt great and I settled down for the morning's routine. It was kinda like a recovery room at Gold's Gym or places on the outside.
Later, refreshed, and back on the road again - I made it to barracks in jig time (sorry for the pun). I was early for lunch, so I used the time to straighten up my footlocker and my shelves - there never seemed enough time on Inspection Day.
That afternoon was to be devoted to Pecan Grove Drill (see elsewhere) only, so inasmuch as this meant mainly sitting in wet grass and chiggers (and keeping one's helmet liner firmly in place upon one's head - anon), there seemed no real reason for my continued absence. I made it to and from the Grove - but by Retreat back at barracks, I was hurting again - and my ankle puffed up once more. I forwent the Post movies that night, and even the near-obligatory Beer Garden gathering after, and opted for an early turn-in on my own.
The next day - same song, second verse: my ankle was "all swole" (Depp) and tender again. By now I knew the driver of the 3/4-ton on a personal basis, so rode up to the hospital with him in his cab. My "medical team" at Base was somewhat surprised to see me back (again) - but there was no denying the physical evidence of my bluish foot. Later, the doctor checked it out once more.
"You've been here several days with this, now - haven't you?, he said. "Yessir!," I said. Adding rather helpfully, I felt, "Matter of fact this is my fifth day!"
"Is that right?" he said. Eyeing me rather strangely, he turned his attention more closely to my foot once more. "Tell me, " he said, eyeing my combat boot on the floor, "...you're not wearing those boots are you on the ride back from the hospital here?"
"Why, Yessir!, I am!," I added in as sprightly a fashion as I could. And then added further , "But there is no ride, Sir! I walk!"
"You walk?" he said incredulously. Walk? - on that foot?" (pause) "And with those heavy tops strapped around your ankle?"
"Don't you men, I mean weren't you told to wear low dress shoes?"
"We don't have dress shoes," I beamed. "Just these boots!"
"Why this is utter nonsense," he said. "With those tops tightly laced around your ankle here, it is all the same as if we had put you into a cast! And anyhow, why are you walking all that distance back to your Battalion - you are supposed to be riding!"
Without waiting for an answer, he then roared,
"Orderly!".
An Orderly appeared. "Where is this man's file?" he said. "Did it not say he was to wear only low shoes and stay off his leg for 24 to 36 hours? (pause) And this business of these infernal boots these people all wear here - why strapping him up in those each day is like strapping him into a brace or cast in the first place!"
The Orderly disappeared and returned with my file. "There's nothing here Sir, about sprained ankles riding back to their Battalions. That would be up to Battalion itself, Sir! - and nothing has ever been cut in that way. Ever, Sir!"
He waited patiently.
The doctor was on the verge of saying something else, when the Orderly added, rather gratuitously, "...Or the Motor Pool, Sir. Maybe it is really the Motor Pool - or even Transportation's job....." He trailed off.
The Officer knew a morass - a Military Morass - when he saw it coming. He stood up. "Orderly," he said, "Here is what I want done! This man here is to be sent back to his Battalion, in sock feet if needed - no boots! - and he is to ride! His papers are to be cut to say so. And he is to be given light duty - my orders! for the next three days -and then he is to be returned to full duty - and he need not be coming up here every day for massage and therapy anymore either!"
And so it was. I was "therapized" once more and for the last time, and then a 3/4-ton came round to pick me up and I was driven back to my Barracks door. Some of my Squad were watching my chauffered delivery and assumed I must now have springboarded this whole business into something grand. Depp saw me arrive, too.
Shortly thereafter he called me into his little cubicle office at the end of the barracks.
"First Sergeant called me up to Comp'ny Headquarters about 15 minutes ago. They wanted to know how come you on Sick Call here every morning and being returned to duty each day into the bargain." Then he paused and fixed me with his beady little eyes: "Y'all's niver told me that you walkin' back each day!"
As respectfully as I could, I said, "You never asked me, Sergeant."
He remained looking at me a long time. Then said, "That's true, Powell. That's true - shur 'nuf true."
Then, "Y'all's got two more days light duty - pissin' round in the Messhall with the cooks and KP bunch. Then the party's over, Powell. You goin' back to a full day's work for a full day's pay."
Somehow I knew he meant it - and I wasn't wrong.
Scrape Here for more 'Barrel...'