Dog Tags

by Stephen Becker

  “What are you driving?” I forced my eyes wide, stretched my mouth, went to a basin of cold water and washed my face, and left the drops to dry, to make me wakeful and brave and talented.

  “Little old ten-tonner.”

  “Load those men onto it.”

  “We can’t—”

  “You can.”

  Behind the man two others bore a sagging burden. “Here,” I told them. “What is it?”

  “Head,” someone said.

  “Lay him down. Load up those others and take off.”

  “Take off!” Murmurs, breathy exclamations. “We can’t leave this man, doc. We been together a long time. This is old Jack. We’ll just stick by him.”

  “Bullshit. Load up those men and move out.”

  Consultations. “No sir. We just can’t do that.”

  I set down my scalpel. “I guess old Jack’s had it,” I said cheerfully.

  Scruffy, cadaverous, their leader gaped. “You mean you won’t fix him up?”

  “All or none. You take care of my six, I take care of Jack. It don’t make me no never mind. I could use some sleep, and a smoke.”

  The leader turned. “Pile those men in the truck.”

  “With great care,” I said. “Two of them can walk. The one with the bandages on his head, sit him up if you can wedge him tight and keep him wedged. The others flat on their backs. Then take off.”

  “We’ll take off when Jack can go.”

  “You’ll take off now,” I said. “That’s an order. I’ll stay with Jack. That’s a promise.”

  I set to work on Jack while the others hefted and complained and scuffed and made cold breezes. “Some small clamps, Ewald. Look at this, down the neck like a razor. Just missed the artery,” I was whispering, crooning, to myself as much as to Ewald, working and explaining and keeping awake, lecturing, a patter of applause from the balcony, triumphantly Benny brandishes a string of sausages, “and just missed the jugular, and sliced right through the trapezius.” I sucked in air, swayed, steadied. Dizzy; light danced. “More swabs. Now sir, this is a problem. Yessir. This went deep. Deep, deep, deep, deep and clean.” Not speech, incantation. The room was clear. We were alone. A motor burped, roared. Ewald seemed gray and drawn. “You could have gone.” “I know,” he said. “Thanks,” I said. “Plasma’s done.” Ewald coiled tubing. I nipped and tucked. “Throw another log on the fire,” I said. “We may have a chance to sleep. Open a ration. Happy Thanksgiving, or Christmas, we’re in there somewhere. I’m drunk now or I’d love a drink. A glass of whiskey and a cigarette, and the dartboard and all the auld gang down to the pub—”

  The door swung open. I paused in mid-stitch to complain about the breeze and thought at first that I was addressing a Korean, a soldier, perhaps a servant, a chauffeur come for me and Ewald; until I saw a red star, implacably hostile eyes and the vast, round muzzle of an automatic weapon, and I understood that I was face to face with a Chinese soldier. Shock paralyzed me, not fear but simple primitive shock: across thousands of miles and thousands of years, across seas and straits, languages and scripts, epicanthic folds and circumcisions, chopsticks and forks, famine and Pinsky’s, this Mongolian warrior menaced this Jewish doctor. “Die-foo,” I said, the Mandarin for doctor, and added a phrase Lin had taught me: literally, have you finished eating, but it was a very classy idiom for hello, how are you. The Chinese eyes widened briefly; the man gestured and two others entered, bearing a third. Ewald was flattened against the wall beside the fireplace, face a rictus, as if he would hiss, a saffron cat among rattlers. “Ewald, come over here,” I said firmly. “Stand at the table here and be a medic.” I pointed to Ewald and said again, “Die-foo.”

  “Die-foo,” the Chinese said, and a further string of syllables. I shook my head. More syllables. I shook my head again and went on stitching. “Die-foo,” the Chinese said more urgently. He pointed to his fallen comrade, still slung between the two soldiers; an officer, I sensed. Ewald moved quickly to the table and stood across from me, rigid. I nodded to the Chinese. “You’re next,” I said, or gasped, and realized that I had hardly breathed since the irruption. I indicated Jack, half-stitched. The Chinese spoke curtly. I waved a hand: “Let me finish, you’re next.” The Chinese placed the muzzle of his automatic weapon at Jack’s head and fired a short, thunderous burst. Jack’s head blew open, some of it staining me but most of it spattering the wall. The Chinese shoved Jack off the table and issued orders. His men brought their patient to me. “Die-foo,” the Chinese said, and urged me to work, prodding politely. I opened the patient’s padded jacket. The Chinese spoke and his soldiers stepped forward to assist. Ewald’s face was a mask, elemental: hate, terror; a mask for snakes, lightning, unexpected foul gods. I signed to the soldiers, roll him over a bit. One shot, maybe two, entry anterior just below the sixth rib, maybe nicked the spleen maybe not, seems to have missed the lung, how do you know?—“Ewald. Plasma”—tore through the diaphragm, blew a big hole on the way out—“Plasma, Ewald”—exit posterior just below the eighth rib. Doctor Beer will pull this one through by the force of personality. “Ewald, we have a badly wounded man on the table.”

  “A badly—” Ewald’s mad eyes rolled.

  “Ewald. Plasma. That’s an order. Move.”

  He leaned forward and spoke in a rush, spattering me with a fine spray of saliva. “For these sons of bitches? That shot our guys in the back of the head? I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you first.”

  “You’re spitting on the patient,” I said. “Now listen.”

  “There’s some guns in the corner,” he muttered quickly. “I’ll drift over there and cover them. When I do, you get that burp gun.” He was out there west of the Pecos.

  “Plasma,” I said. “We need it now.” I too leaned forward; as hard as I could I slapped Ewald, catching his cheek and temple. He hopped sideways and almost fell; recovering, he drew an outraged breath, glared, raised both hands like claws. The muzzle of the burp gun twitched. “You’re attracting attention,” I said. “Plasma. Right now.”

  The Chinese—officer? noncom, I guessed—nodded, expressionless yet approving, impassive yet attentive. Ewald prepared the plasma. I cleaned and trimmed. I glanced again at my supervisor and met a flat stare, the hint of a nod. I concentrated: as well that this man not die; no, he would not die this time. “Ewald,” I said, “you don’t like this at all. You don’t understand it.”

  “I understand it. You’re yellow.”

  “Yes, that would be it. Don’t let this gent hear you use that word that way.” My patient stirred. “Somewhere in Washington is the man who decided that I had to come to Korea. It was a mistake. Some clerk. I hadn’t interned and they took no such. Only me. And we couldn’t fight the god damn machine. Now if that clerk was on the table here, I’d do exactly the same for him. Understand?”

  “No. Shut up. If we get out alive—”

  “If we get out alive you threatened an officer. Furthermore you permitted weapons in an aid station against my strict orders. You—”

  “Me?” His fists clenched. “I had nothing to do with that. You cut that out, Lieutenant.”

  “Watch it. This man’s coming to.”

  I finished stitching. How did they say “temporary” in Chinese? They’d figure it out. “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” the noncom said. He spoke to his two men, who covered the patient, and then he walked about the room taking inventory. He slung his burp gun and spoke, obviously warning us not to be foolish. “Don’t fool,” I told Ewald.

  “Some day,” Ewald said, “and I hope I’m there.”

  “Can’t please ’em all,” I said.

  The noncom offered me a cigarette. I accepted. He joined me, and lit a wooden match for us both. Contemptuously Ewald drew a package of American cigarettes from his shirt pocket; ostentatiously he lit one. I almost giggled. “Good,” he said.

  I nodded strenuously. “Yessirree bob. Sure beats these damn communist weeds.” I waved the cigarette and smiled—gr
imaced—thanks at the noncom. He pointed to Ewald, tapped the burp gun and looked the question. “Good God no,” I said, and shook my head and frowned like an officer. “No. No. No.” He smiled. He was amused and sympathetic.

  He went to the radio and to Ewald’s astonishment operated it. That seemed inconceivable to me too: how could an American radio speak Chinese? I remembered first meeting a Negro who spoke only French: how wrong! My own uncles: the shvartzers are Americans, don’t forget, as good as anybody! How long without sleep now—forty hours? “Hey,” I said. The noncom hushed me. His call completed, he turned to me. I pointed to my pack and made eating motions. Pointed to my wristwatch and fingered a series of circles. He nodded but unslung the burp gun as I rummaged. His men were removing the American arms and some of the plasma. As I ate I wandered among the supplies, extracting what two packs might accommodate, gesturing and saying, “Die-foo, die-foo, die-foo. Ewald, wherever we wind up we’ll need this stuff. Help me now and have your tantrum later.” The patient moaned and stirred; I checked him and reassured the noncom.

  When a vehicle pulled into the courtyard voices rose, and the sounds of loading; four men entered, scavenged thoroughly, chatted with the noncom, removed the wounded officer. The noncom committed Ewald and his bulging pack to the care of a soldier, and walked beside me to the door. He seemed thoughtful and not inscrutable. At the door he halted me and brought the muzzle of the burp gun to my throat. I tried to read his eyes and could not, and the imminence of death ripped through me like an electric shock; my knees dissolved. The Chinese reached inside my shirt and ripped away my dog tags. I felt old aches, magic hangovers, universal déjà vu, everything, always.

  Outside in the dark I stumbled and sagged. I made signs for beddy-bye and they let me lie on the floor of the truck, where I was cold. I found a stack of my own blankets and wrapped myself in one and said, “Die-foo,” and the Chinese all laughed.

  6

  “Parsons.” Benny spoke the name slowly. This was a dream, or a trick. The ship rolled, and Benny seemed to glide.

  “You remember me.” Parsons rose to shake hands. “How do you feel?”

  “Seasick,” Benny said. “But I’d …” He gestured, open hands. “I’d rather be seasick than …”

  “I imagine so. Sit down.”

  Benny examined the metal chair. “It’s bolted to the floor.”

  “Yes.”

  Benny sat. “You? How come …?”

  “I asked for you.” Parsons smiled. “Old friends, and all that.” The table between them was round and covered in green baize. “Just took your name off one list and put it on another.” Parsons too sat down, and they squirmed and settled like card players. Parsons poked at a file folder. “You’re all right physically. I’m glad of that.”

  It was a sizable room, perhaps a wardroom or a saloon. They were alone in it.

  “It’s nice on deck,” Benny said. “The sunshine, and the ocean.”

  “Quite a change. So you got into medical school all right.”

  “I almost wish I hadn’t.” Portholes. Wooden trim here and there, dark. Bright screws. Tables and shelves hinged to the wall. Bulkhead.

  “You know,” Parsons said, “this is a tremendous problem we have on our hands.”

  A phrase-maker. He did not mean Ewald, Benny knew. All problems were tremendous. “I suppose so.” No rats. No lice. So antiseptic!

  “We have nine of these transports, all doing the same job. We’re just collecting facts, you know.”

  Earnest. Earnest Parsons, as in an old play. What was his Christian name?

  “Glad to help,” Benny said. He belched gently. “Sorry. Still adjusting to food. You have no idea what tropical storms a little soda pop can generate.” The ship rolled tamely, languidly; he blinked and breathed deeply.

  “Are you all right?” The remote tones: Parsons. Parsons wore silver oak-leaves.

  “I’m all right. All tanned. Gaining weight.”

  “You were down to one fifty.”

  “From two oh five. I’ll get it back.”

  “Yes. A nice slow trip and all you can eat.”

  “And whiskey in the officers’ quarters.”

  “Go easy,” Parsons said. “You’ve got to get used to things all over again. You’ve come out of an absolutely regulated life, every decision made for you, no choices, no options.”

  “Decisions?” Benny said. “Choices? Ah, Colonel: every minute of every day.”

  Parsons considered, pursed his lips, clucked. “Maybe so.”

  “You’re older,” Benny said. “You’ve lost some hair.”

  Parsons smiled sadly. “I’m forty.”

  “And a light colonel. You’ll be a general in the next one.”

  “You’re older too,” Parsons said.

  “Several decades older,” Benny said. Outside the porthole blue sky, an endless tilting sea.

  “Why don’t you call me Alex,” Parsons said. “We’re old friends.”

  “Alex.” Benny approved. “Good. Companions in arms.”

  “That’s what we are,” Parsons said. “Benny, nobody here is your enemy, but I have to remind you of article thirty-one of the uniform code of military justice. You may decline to answer any question if you feel that the answer will tend to incriminate or degrade you. But anything you do say may be held against you.”

  7

  In a searing white dawn they prodded us off the truck and into a temple. Ewald’s face was yellow wax, frozen, set hard. We had no fire and now no blankets. We: a dozen or so. Ewald moved away from me and curled up on the floor. I went after him: “Stay close, Corporal. I’ll need that pack.” He made no answer. Men stirred. I defined myself and asked who needed help. “He does,” they said, and waved at a bulky Negro.

  “Unconscious or asleep?”

  “Unconscious. Maybe dead.”

  “Give me a hand. Turn him over. Gently.”

  Aiee. Bad. Projectile in the back, beside the first lumbar vertebra, slashed in angling to the outside, still in there. Nerves, maybe; kidney, maybe. A mess. Little blood. The dog tags: Howard, Charles Arthur, Protestant, type O. Fever minimal. Respiration too. A lump. “Turn him back.” Bladder full. I pressed lightly. Hell. I unslung the pack. Catheter, grease, needle, clamp. I drew a cc. of water into the syringe. I had to be calm and not shaky and not blasphemous and not suicidal; but a tiny black void blossomed at my precise center. I took his penis in my hand and inserted the catheter, slid it all the way up. (Taking this in? A day in the field with our boys. Penology, you might call it.) This long tube went right up into his bladder, and at the inner end was a small balloon (whee!), with a separate channel of access, and that was what the cc. of water was for: I shot it into the smaller channel and it filled the balloon which then sat in the neck of the bladder so that the catheter could not slip out. Meanwhile the poor bastard was draining into my canteen cup. Seven hundred cc.’s, I estimated. Old Doc Beer, hewer of bone and drawer of pee. The drugstore joke: Do you do urinalysis? Yes. Then wash your hands and make me a ham sandwich. I think by now there were tears in my eyes. But no blood in the urine. Thank God for the least of his blessings. Naturally not responsible for sordors and agonies. When the flow ceased I clamped the tube. Shock. He needed plasma. “Has he been conscious at all?” “He groans.” “Watch him. If he wakes, give him all the water he can hold.”

  “Not supposed to give a wounded man water.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Make him drink.” I had a considerable audience, some gagging. Always something new out of Asia. Join the army. Enlist now. I held forth the cup: “Get rid of this.” A hand took it. “Who’s in charge?”

  “I am.” A sergeant, southern voice. “Trezevant. First regiment, twenty-fourth.” Big and black.

  “Forget that. Name, rank, serial number, date of birth. If they march us we’ll need a litter for this man. I want you to detail four men to carry him, two on, two off. I’ll tag him. Anybody else?”

  “Cuts and bruises. A smashed
shoulder.”

  “I’ll look at them. Pool the food? Share and share alike?”

  “Later,” the sergeant said. “Let ’em sleep.”

  “Any hot water?”

  “Nothin.”

  “Here’s your cup,” someone said.

  I rinsed it and scrubbed it with dirty snow. “Ewald. Let’s get some plasma into this man.”

  “God’s sake,” he said. “Here and now?”

  “Here and now. This fellow may not have any there and then.”

  Afterward we froze in silence. I ate a chocolate bar, sipped from my canteen, smoked. Then I sat back against the stone wall of that house of worship and dozed. Attend the church of your choice. It occurred to me that I might soon die. Or was already dead. The Tibetan hell was a vast lake of ice and the damned stood entombed to the neck crying “ha-ha.” The spark of life: a good phrase and you never knew how good until the fire burned low. I wound my watch.

  Later there were thirty-odd in the temple and I had performed minor embroidery. One of the newcomers was a major. “Kinsella,” the major announced. “You keep these men in shape.” He was a short, hard, dark-haired man, energetic, would rise early, and he reminded me of plains colleges, fields of rimed stubble, a good wing shot. He made a speech. “You take your orders from me. You refer all problems to me. You maintain discipline and respect for rank.” No one cheered. He stood taut, angry. “You just do what I tell you,” he said, and came to sit beside me. “We need a litter,” I said. “Right,” he said, and bounced up and went to the door to holler for a guard. This small tyrant; I almost smiled. Kinsella instructed, made signs; the guard stared blankly and went away. He returned with an officer and Kinsella resumed. The officer spoke English and I joined them. In a pause I spoke my one Chinese idiom and the officer grunted. “We have one man badly hurt and unconscious,” I said. “If you can give me a litter we’ll carry him.”