IN SHOCK
sa3
the
ch~st,
the upper torso swathed in two-inch gauze, there was a
tangle of loose folds, undone by the first movement.
Sergeant Carrol, unstringing my mannequin then rewrapping
with flourishes of gauze, asked me, "How the hell did you ever get
into this outfit?"
Dewey Carrol was a sack of beef with mechanic's hands, little
eyes in a pumpkin face, his belt notched beneath a swollen paunch.
He knew the whole repertory of bandaging. He could wrap any part
of a man. He had deft fingers and a fumbling mouth. For lympho–
granuloma inguinale he had to say "blue balls."
I was bigger than most. I had good shoulders and could do fifty
push-ups. I ran the obstacle course on my own time in order to be
ready for the day when I'd meet the dead and dying. But I showed
small promise as a medic. My hands wouldn't serve me. We practiced
giving each other injections, angling the needle for the different shots
- subcutaneous, intramuscular, intravenous. I didn't flinch when my
novice buddy punctured my arm. When I jabbed in return I pierced
a vein and stained
his
forearm with a bruise.
Dewey Carrol said, "With hands like that you got a tough job
eating breakfast. Too bad you can't work with your tongue. Then
you'd
be
champ." I laughed with him, agreeing to appear as a clown.
Dewey wasn't alone in taking that line. The other GI's spotted
me as an eager-beaver college boy, trying to get ahead with big talk in
lieu of physical grace. They were as suspicious of me as
if
I were
queer. Yet I could take as much punishment as the best of them.
I never fell out on a march. I made good time around the obstacle
course. I could bear to look at anything. I was even ready to look
at dead men. I knew that I could make myself very still and cold, and
so long as I didn't stir nothing would offend me.
If
they didn't ask
my help I'd be fine. I could always trust my mouth to distract others
from my blunders.
Joe Witty didn't have to rely on his mouth. He was the other
college boy in the outfit, a premed student from the University of
Michigan. He was a tall, wiry, Irish boy, long-faced, with a hard
chin. He had no intention of allowing anyone to treat him as a clown.
He volunteered no answers. He respected the laconic tradition of
our American knighthood. He only offered his judgment when it was
asked. And then he was authoritative. He was helped by a fine
