On the Way Out series Vol. 5, Part 7
The wounds that never heal…from the desk of Dan Price
I stood in the doorway listening to the nurse who would soon accompany my brother-in-law into surgery. I listened attentively as the nurse questioned my sister. “Does he have any shrapnel left in his body?”
“Yes, I believe so,” my sister responded. “There has been times over the years when some have fallen out. I can’t say for sure.”
I was standing next to my sister in the doorway of an ICU room at the Veterans Hospital and thinking back to more than fifty years ago…
I then heard a loud bell — a pulsating sound resonating from the room down the hall and suddenly the bright Arizona sun filtered through an opening in the venetian blinds and I could see clearly a view of the mountains to the west.
My brother-in-law was receiving care. Already into his third day of surgery, he was being prepped for another go around…another surgery to repair an infectious wound which had been causing him problems for more than four months.
I didn’t know Chris back in 1968. But I’ve learned over the years where he had been. Chris was there…fighting alongside the members of his unit…serving his country, the United States of America.
I looked around the ICU unit. Doctors, nurses, men and women, were not only taking care of Chris, but many other Vietnam Vets, who for one reason or another had found their way to Tucson, to the Veterans Hospital and to the 2nd floor of the huge complex at Ajo and Sixth Avenue.
I quietly, under my breath, thanked him for his years of service to our country and at that very moment I realized he wasn’t alone. He had his wife by his side, but he also had a Band of Brothers with him in spirit.
Some — including his commanding officer of the Charley Battery — had made it known through phone calls or text messages that they were thinking about him and wishing him a quick recovery. The sooner the better, as another reunion was in the planning stages. Chris had flown to Oklahoma City and Las Vegas in recent years for the annual reunions to be with the surviving members of Charlie Battery, 7th Battalion, 11th Field Artillery of the 25th Armored Division.
He would miss the next reunion in Reston, Virginia, but knowing my brother-in-law, he would battle his way back and be there, alongside his buddies, at the next one.
The Band of Brothers from Charley Battery, 7th battalion has dwindled in recent years, only twenty or so remain, but the surviving members will be there for each other…you can count on it.
What a great feeling that must be for Chris. It’s no wonder he makes his plans a year in advance as he looks forward to yet another meeting, another gathering with the members of his unit — fellow soldiers who had fought for our country, on foreign soil — half a century ago.
God bless, the soldiers who have fought for our country…for those we have lost and to all the survivors who are still paying the price.
I wrote a fiction book a few years ago entitled: The Legend of Bucket Smith. In the first chapter, Bucket returns home from Vietnam. He comes home to a different world…and many changes in his life awaits.
An excerpt…
March/1966
“Bucket, your taxi is out front,” the woman said, as she stuck her head through the hotel room doorway. “Don’t forget to drop off those keys and pay me fifty bucks.”
Bucket had spent three days in the rat-infested hotel and that was the most words the woman, known as Phyllis, had strung together in his behalf.
He had the fifty bucks. No problem. In fact, he still had enough money to get him home. How he would handle things once he got there was another matter.
Bits and pieces of information about his past would fade in and out of his mind. The doctors and nurses had done their part, releasing what they had on Theodore “Bucket” Smith. Still, even then, it left him with more questions than answers.
What he did know was his age. He was 25 years old. He had seen his share of duty in Vietnam. He had been in a coma. He had come back from the dead and he had most of his memory back, even though his thoughts included some nightmarish flashbacks. But he had the letter and he was heading home.
Bucket was three thousand miles from home. His ticket showed a transfer in Memphis and again in Albuquerque, but once he settled in his seat, he figured he’d have some quiet time…some time to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for what was ahead of him. It would be a lot quieter than the taxi ride he had just taken.
“Call me, Clyde,” the New York cab driver had said to him.
And that was just the beginning of the one-sided, ongoing conversation. A good hour had passed before the cab driver had finally pulled into the train station. Clyde had quickly held out his hand and waited anxiously for his money.
Bucket recalled the taxi driver‘s parting words. “Nice talking to you…what did you say your name is?”
The soldier cracked a smile. He had finally joined the conversation. “Bucket…Bucket Smith…thanks for the ride. Say hello to the family.”
Bucket then hustled through the lobby and headed for the boarding area. He had just five minutes to spare. The taxi ride should have taken a shade over thirty minutes. Bucket figured old Clyde had pocketed an extra twenty bucks.
Once aboard, Bucket threw down his duffel bag and quickly found his aisle seat. He still had Clyde on his mind. Bucket shook his head. He knew more about Clyde and his family than he knew about his own.
Clyde’s last name was Barrow. He was born and raised in New Jersey. He had six kids, four still living at home. He had a wife, who is the best cook in the world and he is a Yankee fan.
The train started to pull out of the station. The seat next to him was empty. No Clyde. Bucket dosed off. He had already succumbed to the dull, repetitious sound beneath him.
And another glance…
Bucket left the dining car and went back to his seat. Memphis was still a few hours away. He dosed off again and this time he heard a different sound. It was not gunfire, nor an explosion. It was not the soft voice of Nurse Johansson. Nor was it the sounds of the wheels of the train as they clanged against the steel track below.
It was a whistle. A referee’s whistle.
“Number 23, you’re pushing off…Number 20, blue…you’re on the line,” roared the man in the black and white stripes. “Son, you’re on the line…it’s a one and one.”
The crowd yelled in unison, “Bucket! Bucket! Bucket!”
The tall boy toed the line. He took one look at the basket and calmly sank the first and then the second free throw. The crowd erupted. The inbounds pass went the length of the court and bounced against the wall as the buzzer sounded, ending the game. The boy they called Bucket was lifted onto the shoulders of his teammates.
The scoreboard read: Cordes Junction 82, Camp Verde 80.
Bucket’s teammates lowered him to the floor and the hero bolted into the arms of the blond-haired, smiling cheerleader. He then waved to the crowd, looked down at his sweetheart and said, “Julia, we did it!”
Bucket opened his eyes. The train conductor had put his hand on Bucket’s right shoulder. “Hey, soldier. Memphis in twenty minutes.”
The Memphis train station still looked the same to Bucket. He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, looked around the lobby, and eyed a coffee shop, just to the left of the newspaper stand. Six years ago, he had stopped for lunch at the same coffee shop on the way to boot camp. He was a boy then. He was a man now.
Bucket reached into his pocket, pulled out some change and paid the news stand attendant for the daily paper. He found a seat at the counter in the coffee shop and ordered a cup of coffee, two eggs over medium, bacon and toast.
He glanced over the front page of the paper. The headline read: U.S. to send more troops to Vietnam. He stared at the article. He did not need to read past the first paragraph. He glanced around the coffee shop. Three soldiers sat in the corner. He assumed their orders were tucked away in their duffel bags.
A sadness came over him as he turned the stool around and concentrated on the dish of food the waitress had just slid in front of him. He picked up the inside section of the paper and read the headline on the sports page. It read: Texas Western Miners shock Kentucky in NCAA Final.
He read on about an all-black starting five out of El Paso, Texas — a team that had shocked the world by beating a heavily favored college basketball team. He thought to himself maybe times have changed. It’s about time he thought.
Bucket had spent the last six years, battling to stay alive alongside his fellow soldiers — black, white…no matter the color of their skin, as they fought together for survival in a land far from home. A strange land and certainly very different from the Arizona desert — thousands of miles from the beautiful sunrises and the gorgeous evening sunsets that he was used to.
He didn’t understand all the hatred in the world. Why should it matter what color you are? He knew times really hadn’t changed that much, especially in the South, and especially in places like Memphis where it was common for segregated bathrooms in airports and train stations.
Bucket, shook his head. Hell, it happened in his own state, on the basketball court, before and after a game, at restaurants, at hotels, the hatred was everywhere.
Bucket eyed the black child at the end of the counter. He was putting away a stack of pancakes. His mother, sitting next to him, made sure her child was getting more in his mouth than on the floor.
He would never forget Freddie Greathouse, his friend and starting guard on his high school team. It was an away-game in a small town, near the New Mexico border.
Bucket rubbed his forehead, he couldn’t believe he was having breakfast in Memphis and his thoughts had wandered back to Freddie and a come-from-behind win in Solomanville.
Freddie had scored 20 points that night. Bucket recalls it was an off-night for him, just six points, but he did have 14 offensive boards and kept feeding the ball to Freddie. It should have been a night that Freddie would remember for a long time. Instead, after the game the local restaurant forced Freddie to take his burger and fries to the bus. He ate alone. Freddie remembered the night all right, but for all the wrong reasons.
Bucket came out of his trance. He took a drink of water and signaled the waitress for the bill. He needed to let his thoughts subside for a while. He was getting better at absorbing it all…one minute his thoughts would take him to a foxhole in Vietnam, the next would take him to his teenage days on the basketball court…then to his mother and then to Julia. The puzzle was almost complete. Little did he know, he would return home just in time for another one to begin.
***** *****
Photo above is of my high school buddy Richard Smith (classes of 1963-64). The beautiful image of a soldier and the man taken by a Vietnamese photographer in the village of An Tay. Richard served our country while in Vietnam from 1967-68.
Thank you to my friend Richard and to my brother-in-law Chris for their service to our country...and to all the men and women who have fought for our freedom.
