by Joe Gribble
cop. Drive a stick? He’ll have to sell his Mustang. Hell, will he even be able to dress himself without help? His life is over.
Bob glances back at the glove, then over at his missing arm. He reaches out and grabs the glove with his left hand, ripping the IV loose. He screams, throwing the glove at the TV.
A nurse rushes in, followed closely by two orderlies.
“Staff Sergeant Williams!” the nurse says.
Bob flops back into the bed, filled with despair. His IV dangles near his bleeding arm.
The nurse grabs a bandage and quickly covers his wound.
The orderlies split, one to each side of the bed, in case the patient gets violent.
But Bob isn’t in the mood to fight. Nothing worth fighting for now. He lies quietly as the nurse works to reconnect his IV.
“This fluid is keeping the pain down, Sergeant,” she says. “Probably not a good idea to pull it loose. It’s also keeping infection at bay.”
With a nod of her head, the nurse releases the orderlies. As they leave, one of them picks up the glove and puts it back on the table.
“Good to see you’re finally awake,” the nurse says. “You’ve been out of it for quite a while.”
Bob tries to talk, but his throat is raw and dry. “Where?”
“Landstuhl. Germany. You came in two days ago,” she says. “Slight sting,” she says as she re-inserts the needle.
Bob considers what she said. He’s been here for two days. No telling how long in the ‘Stan before they medevac’d him out. Then a terror hits him. “Johnny?” His voice rasps.
The nurse looks up at him. “Johnny? Who’s Johnny?”
“Was with me.”
A frown forms on the nurse’s face. She holds a cup of water to his lips. “You came in alone. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Bob takes a sip, has trouble swallowing.
“Don’t move this arm. I’ll be back in a minute.”
---
Bob had been hit with a sledgehammer, realizing he had lost the most important thing in his life—his ability to play baseball. But waiting to hear about Johnny is like waiting for a guillotine to drop. He feels terrible—embarrassed that he hasn’t thought of Johnny first instead of the self-pity he felt for himself. It seems like forever while he waits for the nurse to return, but it’s only about ten minutes before the door opens again.
Bob immediately recognizes the man as a soldier, having worked with the Army for so many long months, but it’s the soldier’s insignia that catches his eye… a cross above the Chaplain’s name tape. Bob’s stomach drops and his panic returns.
The Chaplain steps to Bob’s bed and puts a hand on his shoulder.
Bob’s panic subsides, replaced with an overwhelming sense of dread.
---
Center for the Intrepid, Brook Army Medical Center, San Antonio Texas
Misery, pain, and despair fill the next few months. Mostly despair. The pain Bob can deal with. He shares the misery with his fellow warriors at the Center for the Intrepid in San Antonio. But the despair at having lost Johnny is almost more than he can stand.
The Chaplains continued reaching out to him during this difficult time, but Bob keeps them at arm’s length. He knows their motivations are noble, that they truly want to help him, but he also knows they have no concept of just how great his loss is.
Through the first few weeks in rehab, Bob lets his misery rise to the surface. He is angry, insufferable to the caregivers trying to help him, and generally an all-around jerk. He knows it, and even though this behavior is totally unlike any he has ever known or displayed, there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do about it.
Not only does he have to deal with the loss of his arm, but there are also burns on the right side of his torso. He suffers through multiple surgeries and skin grafts before that pain subsides.
But it is the physical therapy that he dreads the most. It is physically painful, and his attitude makes it all the more difficult. His self-pity makes him less than enthused about regaining strength or learning techniques that will enable him to live a somewhat normal life. He comes to dread the sessions, often begging off, claiming one ailment or another to keep from having to face his therapist and the torture machines.
It is during one of those times when he tells the therapist he has a fever. He is lying on his bed when someone taps on the door. Bob tries to ignore it, but the visitor is persistent. Finally, after about the fourth tap, Bob yells at the interruption: “What?”
The door opens and a man in a wheelchair rolls in. “Been watching you,” the man says. “Thought you could use some company. I’m Sergeant Johnson.”
“Don’t need any company,” Bob replies, never looking up.
“Then perhaps what you need is a kick in the ass,” Johnson barks as he wheels himself closer to Bob’s bed.
No one had talked to Bob that way, not seriously, at least not since boot camp. Bob had always been self-motivated, and the thought of someone else trying to use threats to motivate him, particularly in how the visitor framed the statement, made Bob angry. He sits up, glaring at his visitor until…
Bob’s anger melts immediately. Johnson has far worse injuries than Bob’s. His guest is in the wheelchair due to the loss of both his legs. He is also missing his left arm, and severe burn scars cover the right side of Johnson’s face.
“Course, I don’t think I could literally kick your ass.” Johnson smiles. “Back in the day, maybe, but not now.”
Bob isn’t sure how to respond. He just stares at the other man.
Johnson waits for a few seconds. “They didn’t tell me you couldn’t talk.”
“I can talk fine,” Bob replies, anger returning. “What do you want?”
“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Johnson says. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“In case you didn’t notice,” Bob says, “I’m missing my arm.”
“A tragedy, I’m sure,” Johnson says as he wheels back over to shut the door.
When Johnson turns around again, his face has grown more stern. He rolls up close to Bob. “I mean, what the hell’s wrong with YOU?” He pokes Bob in the chest with his one hand. “What’s wrong in here?”
“What do you mean?” Bob asks.
“Where’s your heart? Where’d your drive go?” Johnson says. “I heard you were a ballplayer.”
“Pitcher,” Bob says.
“Any good?” Johnson asks.
Bob turns his head away. “Yeah.”
“Look at me,” Johnson says.
Bob turns back to face Johnson.
“I asked if you were any good,” Johnson says, continuing the interrogation.
“Yes,” Bob says, his voice growing louder. “Damn good.”
“Fastball?”
“Yeah,” Bob says. “High nineties. Consistent.”
“Curve?” Johnson’s voice eases up, becomes more sympathetic.
“Yeah,” Bob says. He eyes Johnson. Johnson shifts between acting like a drill instructor and acting like a friend. Bob isn't sure which he is trying to be. “Every flavor.”
“That curve ball come natural?”
“Heck, no. Took years,” Bob says. “No telling how many pitches…” Bob trails off, understanding what Johnson was getting to. ”Took me thousands of pitches to get it down.”
Johnson sits silently, knowing Bob is soaking up the lesson. He finally speaks up. “Nothin’ comes easy. This ain’t no different. You just gotta’ put your heart into it.”
Bob turns away again. “No reason….”
Johnson waits for Bob to look back at him.
Bob continues, “Got no reason to push.”
Johnson stares at Bob for a long moment. His eyes grow soft. “I know. I lost a lot of good friends, too.”
A tear forms at the corner of Bob’s eye. “There’s nothing left. Johnny wasn’t just a good friend. He was a brother.”
“They’re all our brothers,” Johnson says.
“
No,” Bob says. “It’s not like that. Johnny was really like my brother. We grew up together in the same foster home. He’s the only family I’ve ever had.”
“That’s rough,” Johnson says. He waits a few moments, then he stares hard at Bob. “Was Johnny a wimp?”
“Hell, no.” Bob’s voice gets louder. “Hell, no, Johnny was tough as nails.” Bob starts to get up, anger boiling. “He was my catcher. We were going to the Majors together.”
Johnson puts his hand up. “Easy, Bob. I just wondered what Johnny would be doing if the roles were reversed. Would he be moaning all over himself, too?”
Bob eases back, sitting on his bed. He puts his head down into his hand. His body jerks as he begins to cry for the first time.
Johnson rolls closer, puts his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I didn’t think so.” Johnson waits patiently while Bob sobs, letting his pain flow out with the tears. When Bob finally recovers his composure, Johnson gives his orders. “Here’s what I want. I want you to put your heart into your rehab. Let’s do this for Johnny, in his memory… okay?”
Bob stares at the man, the stranger with the missing limbs, the burned face. Why is he doing this? Why does he care? Bob has no choice but to nod in agreement.
“Good,” Johnson says, patting him on the shoulder again. He rolls back, turns toward the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on your progress. I think you’ll be surprised at how quickly you get the hang of things.” Johnson rolls out the door.
---
The next few weeks are hard, but as each day passes, the work gets easier. Bob’s attitude improves with each technique and skill he masters.
One therapy the docs suggest is darts. Throwing darts. They had a room set up with a dozen dart boards, spaced well apart. Like a shooting
