Decoration for Valor

by Joe Cassilly

  I reached over, grabbed a towel, and draped it over my shoulder. I turned toward the locker and took my pants off. I had stopped wearing underwear right after I got in country. I wrapped the towel around me and turned around. She led me into a steam-filled room. My chest heaved to breathe in the heavy, hot, wet air. The heat intensified the effects of the scotch. I was drunk. The room had little tin panels in it, which served as dividers. She took me to one area and I sat on a stool.

  The Dutchman walked by to the other side of the room and sat down behind another panel out of sight. The girl went and brought a large sponge and soap. As she moved around the room, I stared at her white T-shirt and very tight fitting white shorts. Two of the Dutchman’s girls walked by carrying buckets and my girl grabbed two buckets and followed them. I heard a door bang open and the howling wind. When they walked back through carrying full buckets of water, they were soaked from the rain. She sat the buckets beside me.

  Cynthia had rinsed my chest and stomach. Although my head was immobilized and I could not look, I knew what she was doing from the pressure on my body or from being able to see in a small mirror that hung at an angle above my bed. Cynthia then pulled all the blankets off the bed, leaving only the sheet on me. She then moved to the foot of the bed and folded the sheets up, exposing my legs. She began to scrub my feet, working in between the toes and up the leg.

  The steam had done its job; the sweat was pouring out of me. The Vietnamese girl moved beside me and reached down and pulled off my towel and tossed it over the panel. She dipped the sponge into the bucket several times and, each time, squeezed it over my head. Her wet shirt clung to her body and her breasts jiggled each time she held out the sponge. She soaped up the sponge and briskly scrubbed down my back. Then, she came up over my shoulders and started lathering my chest and working in small circles down my body.

  I could hear the Dutchman moaning and crying out short yelps. I began trembling, my heart was pounding, and I was breathing through my mouth. I watched the girl’s expressionless face as she slowly washed me. I slid my hand up and down the inside of her thigh. With my other hand, I grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand.

  When it was over, I found myself gripping the stool. I felt numb and dizzy. I stood and dumped both buckets of water over myself. I took the towel and walked to my locker. I was pulling my pants on when I realized that she was watching me. I started blushing. I suddenly felt guilty.

  “Hey, Jake,” the Dutchman hollered. “Did she jerk you off yet?” I was embarrassed. Damn, I didn’t want to be hassled, I couldn’t talk to him. I shoved a wad of script into her hand. I grabbed my boots and shirt and ran back to the company area.

  When the Dutchman came into our hootch, I pretended to be asleep. I lay there wondering how many soldiers she had washed before me. What did she think of GIs? What would she be doing when we all went home?

  Cynthia was pulling the sheet down over my legs. With no feeling below my armpits, I had no sensation of anything south of my chest. After almost two months of bed baths, I had tried to discard modesty as a ridiculous virtue in my circumstances. But I always felt a deep embarrassment when they uncovered me and began to wash me. I hoped maybe they were embarrassed too and might say something that acknowledged my feelings. They treated me like a thing.

  Cynthia moved up beside me and folded the sheet down. I watched her reflection in my small mirror as she took my penis into her gloved hand and cleaned the discharge off the catheter that ran into my bladder. I had no feeling there. She wiped down my penis, scrotum, and between my legs. I began to have an erection. I did not understand my body. Sometimes, I stayed soft when they washed me and other times I responded like this. But I wished it were not happening now. I could not endure the embarrassment any longer.

  “Look, that’s good enough. You don’t have to wash me anymore,” I said in a hoarse whisper. Her expression never changed. She wasn’t going to hear me. She began rinsing the soap. The blood pulsing through my penis made it throb and arch each time she touched me. I closed my eyes and thought, “If I can’t see it, it isn’t happening.” I felt my jaw clench with anger, anger that I was so dependent on others and yet I had no control of how they treated me.

  I felt her rearranging the blankets over me. I would not look at her. Just before she pulled open the curtains, she came around the bed and leaned forward to look into my eyes. “You’re just a job. I’m not at all affected by how you look,” she said with what looked like a smirk. At that instant, I wondered if everyone I met in life would just regard me as a job.

  “I knew a girl like you in Vietnam,” I said from my still-clenched teeth. I wasn’t sure she heard me over the noise of the curtains sliding in their tracks.

  The surgery went okay. They removed the tongs from my head and I was able to slowly begin sitting up. After I was able to sit, I took over my own washing.

  8

  The Purple Heart

  In the days after Christmas, all over the world, normal people were driving home from the relatives, throwing away tons of wrapping paper, returning gifts. The days up to the New Year were the loneliest of my life. My despair was so deep. I cursed the doctors in Vietnam for not letting me die. No one came to visit. Although nurses and volunteers would stop and chat, I wanted a friend. I needed to know that I could have friends in spite of my body.

  I wanted to get out of bed, but the doctors said it would be another month before I could get up in a wheelchair. On New Year’s Eve, a major and a first sergeant came to the ward and held an award ceremony. It was attended by the staff, some patients, and their visitors. I had been told about an hour before that they were coming. I held my electric razor between the palms of my hands and shaved. My hair hadn’t grown back enough to need combing. Finally, with the help of Cathy, who was my assigned student nurse for the day, I put on a clean T-shirt. It was the first time since I had been hurt that I had put on any clothing. Then, we arranged a surprise.

  The major read the proclamation. I heard something about “injuries received in combat” and “presented to Specialist Fourth Jake Scott.” My mind was on what I was about to do. He stopped reading and took a small blue box from the first sergeant. He opened it and produced the purple ribbon from which hung the Purple Heart edged in gold. I had the sheet pulled up under my chin. When the major stepped forward to hand me the medal, I pulled the sheet down to show my T-shirt. The major and everyone but the first sergeant broke into big smiles.

  On my T-shirt, Cathy had drawn an Army uniform with a magic marker. On my left chest, she had written “U.S. ARMY” over a drawn pocket and a rough approximation of the combat infantry badge. Down the center were a row of “buttons” and over the right “pocket” was written “SCOTT.” On the left sleeve was a scroll with “AIRBORNE RANGER, F CO., 75TH INF.” and under that was the taro leaf with a lightning bolt of the 25th Infantry Division. The major pinned the medal to the shirt and we shook hands. Everyone congratulated me. I laughed and joked with them. This medicine could not have come at a better time. The laughter gave me new energy and strength. It felt good.

  Cathy stopped by at the end of the day to ask if I needed anything before she left.

  “Are there any Red Cross volunteers on the ward?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. What do you need?”

  “I think I need to write a letter home to let my mother know I’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll see if I can find someone to help you.” She walked down the aisle.

  About an hour and a half had passed and no one had come. I was struggling to hold a pen with my crippled hands and write on the pad lying on the bed. It was slow going and frustrating. I kept trying new grips, between both palms, woven between my fingers on one hand. I kept thinking, You can’t be beaten unless you let your mind tell you to give up.

  Suddenly, hands reached to take the pad and pen from me. “Could I help?”

  It was Cathy, but she had changed from her student nurse’s uniform to a bright white sweater over
a blue turtleneck with blue jeans and knee boots. She sat down beside me and crossed her legs. She placed the pad on her knee and waited with the pen poised above it. She tilted her head so that her hair fell forward and looked at me. I then realized that I was staring with my mouth open. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t find anyone to help you with your letter. So I went to my apartment, changed, and picked up some things.”

  “You think anybody can read that scrawl?” I asked. “Should I get you to do it over?”

  “Dear Mom and Dad,” she read, “I know I haven’t written since the hospital in Vietnam. If I don’t say this now, I may never find the courage to again. I was thinking today that I have lost so much this year that’s ending. I don’t want to lose my family too. I know we’re stubborn but I need to ask for your…” I had stopped at that point. She looked at me.

  “You ready to dictate?”

  “I don’t know now. What I want to say is hard enough to write to my parents, but I may have a little trouble telling a stranger.”

  “I’m Cathy Creel. I am 21. I’m from Frederick, Maryland. I’m studying nursing and, this morning, I helped you take a bath. I think we’re a little passed the stranger stage.” She had a very pretty smile.

  “Okay, the next word is—support.”

  “Support! That’s stockings for old women. If you want to be honest with them, tell them you love them and need their love.”

  “Who’s writing this letter anyway?”

  “We are.”

  “In my whole life, I have never told my father I love him. He pisses the hell out of me.” I looked away from her and out of the window. “I can’t help but think that what he says and what he does is because it’s his way of trying to give me love. Why is it so hard to say ‘I love you’ to someone you have lived your whole life with,” I said, looking back at her, “and so easy to say to some girl you met three hours ago.”

  “Maybe, if she doesn’t say she loves you back, it won’t hurt.” Her eyes looked down at the letter. “I don’t have any answers. You want to finish this letter?”

  “Yes. Tell them I learned that they are sending me to Richmond in early January. That I am going to start college this fall and that I will probably study teaching and history.” I stopped and watched her as she wrote. Her sandy blonde hair curled over her shoulders; when she worked, it had always been done up under her hat. Her sweater fit nicely to her body and her jeans were tight. She finished writing.

  “How tall are you?” I asked.

  “I’m five feet ten inches tall. How tall are you?”

  “Six feet one or about ten inches lying down. Depends on your perspective. Start a new paragraph. Please. “Please, send addresses for all the aunts, uncles, and cousins and let them know I’d like to hear from them. Mom and Dad, I know Richmond is a long drive, but I’d like you both to visit. Please, I need you to.”

  I watched her writing. Why had she come back? I could smell fragrance. A tear ran down her cheek. She glanced at me and saw that I had seen the tear and wiped it with the back of her hand.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, I was just thinking about what you were saying.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “No, it’s nice.”

  “It sounds awkward, but I don’t know what else to say. Sign it ‘Love Jake.’”

  “No, you sign it.” She handed back the pad and pen. I fumbled with the pen but I got it done. Cathy pulled the curtain forward on the track a little bit. “Watch out for the nurse.”

  I kept an eye out while she reached into her shoulder bag. She pulled out a small bottle of champagne and two paper cups. She twisted out the cork, poured it into the cups, and handed me one.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I thought we would toast in the New Year. May you have a really great one.” She held out her cup.

  “Well, it has got to be better than the old one; it couldn’t possibly be worse.” I tapped her cup and we drank it down.

  “I’m sorry it’s not chilled.”

  “I’m sorry it’s not beer.”

  “Next time, it will be beer.” She picked up the envelope. “You want me to address this?”

  I nodded. “Mr. and Mrs. David Scott, P. O. Box 927, Castle Crossing, Pennsylvania.”

  She sealed the envelope, put the stamp on, and placed it in her bag.

  “You picked a great evening to come. Thank you very much.”

  “I was with you all morning and you never spoke to me. I was very worried. But when I saw you scheming this afternoon and laughing at your joke, I knew you were all right. I’ll be your visitor if you need one.”

  “I need one.”

  “I’ll see you.” She stood and walked out. Her long legs moved gracefully and her hips were…well, I decided I was in love with tall women. The next two days passed quickly. I hadn’t seen Suzie since she said she was going skiing. Cathy stopped by each day, but I kept feeling she was only bothering because I would be gone shortly. Try as I might to drive it away, the depression began crawling back into my life, like rust slowly eating at my will. I did not have a chance to say goodbye to anyone when the orderlies came in very early on the third of January and packaged me up to ship to Richmond.

  9

  Despairing of Forever

  I arrived at the VA hospital around 8:00 p.m. There was a heavy fog and drizzling rain as the orderlies lifted the stretcher from the back of the ambulance. You get a very different view of the world moving through it on your back; looking up the men’s nostrils, the peeling paint on the porch roof, the top of the door frame and the glaring lights and fire sprinkler nozzles on the ceiling of the hall. We stopped by the door to an office and the orderly went in. Then, I heard the voices.

  The man, “We brought you a war hero out here.”

  A woman’s voice, “Put him in the first room on the right.”

  They wheeled me out of the pale green hallway into a pale green room and slid me onto a narrow hospital bed. I was left alone. Fluorescent lights gave the room an uncomfortable starkness. I pulled a cloth laundry bag open that contained all of my belongings. I fumbled around inside it until I found a small transistor radio. I slowly edged the round tuning knob through the static until I got a clear station. It was a basketball game. I laid the radio on the pillow near my ear.

  After awhile, a nurse came in. She was in her mid-fifties, brown skin, thin frame, a long face, and gentleness in her eyes. She brought in a pitcher of water. She helped me lift my head so that I could take a drink.

  “Did they get you supper, boy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll move you out on the ward with the other boys so you won’t be lonesome.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She left the room and was almost immediately replaced in the doorway by a big, heavyset man in a large electric wheelchair. “New guy, huh? My name’s John Byrd, Big John they call me.” His conversation was quick, as if he did not care about a reply.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked. I expected the reply to involve months, at the most a year—or two.

  “Sixteen years,” he boomed matter of factly.

  “Sixteen years!” My voice was suddenly hoarse as if I had just heard a prison sentence from a hangin’ judge.

  Big John said goodnight. I think he was miffed at my startled reaction. “Sixteen years,” I repeated softly. I wondered if all my plans for college and life were just dreams out of my reach. I prayed.

  “Oh please, dear God, please help me, just cure my hands. You can keep the legs if that is part of some big plan You have, but give me my hands.” The long day of travel had exhausted me. I fell asleep as the Philadelphia 76ers were beaten by somebody. I slept soundly—at first.

  The dream started. It was the dream I was terrified of. As soon as it started, I knew how it would end. Somewhere deep in my subconscious, a part of me did not want to relive the feelings, the sights, the smells,
the tastes, the sounds. It began screaming at me to wake up, telling me I did not have to let this happen again. But it had started.

  I was sitting on the edge of the open door of a Huey helicopter. My legs were dangling out over the jungle two thousand feet below. The ground was pocked with artillery craters, which had dried to light tan starbursts on the dark green jungle floor. I cradled my M-60 machine gun in my arms. A heavy pack pressed into my back. The team of seven Rangers and a Vietnamese scout were on our way to be dropped into the jungle to ambush a Viet Cong supply trail. This was my eleventh mission. I worried about number thirteen. I had been in country for five months.

  I looked around at the other faces. Two were eighteen years old, two were nineteen, one was twenty, one was twenty-one, one was twenty-four, and the Vietnamese scout was sixteen. It was a war like all wars, fought by young men who were such great warriors only because we did not understand that we could be killed.

  The chopper banked left and I looked straight down at the ground below. Now, we lost altitude sharply, dropping, dropping, until we were flying below treetop level. I sat, thrilled at seeing trees pass within feet of the chopper at fifty knots an hour. The adrenaline was surging and I tightened my grip on the big gun. Any second, we would spot the landing zone. It was coming, coming, coming. My heart was pounding. I was breathing through my nose and mouth. I wanted a drink of water. There wasn’t time.

  I felt the chopper nose pull up, the tail swung around, and we were dropping sideways into the jungle clearing. The ground was rushing up. My eyes peered into the nearby tree line. Searching. Were they in there? Waiting? Aiming their guns?

  “YES, YES,” screamed the voice in my head. “Wake up! Wake up! Don’t dream on. I don’t want to know! I don’t want to see!”

  I was breathing hard. Lying in a bed. “In Richmond,” I said to myself. I was afraid to go back to sleep, afraid the dream would start again. “Jesus Christ, why are you doing this to me,” my voice was silent but desperately, angrily pleading. The sky gradually lightened. I would not dream in the daytime. They brought me a breakfast tray. Everything but the orange juice was cold. A cold sausage paddy with congealed grease. Cold grits. Cold dry toast. Cold coffee. If I had to eat to get well, then I was definitely in trouble. And grits. Nobody eats grits. Nobody with taste. I drank the beverages. An aide came to clear the tray.