The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  The priest finished his ceremony and moved on, to another bed at the far end of the room to repeat his ritual. Then to the bed beyond Schwarz, to repeat yet again.

  Why these three? He wondered. Was this ceremony only for them? That was fine with him, though he found the repetitious gibberish annoying.

  “What’s he doing?” he demanded of the nurse.

  “Just a ritual,” she assured him. “Nothing to worry you.”

  “It hurts my head,” he snapped.

  “I know … He’ll be finished soon,” she assured him. “Try to rest.”

  He did manage to doze off for a while.

  When he woke, it was because of activity across the aisle. The face of the patient was covered with a sheet, and a pair of medics were lifting him onto a wheeled cart. The body appeared stiff and lifeless.

  In a dreamlike fog of confusion, John watched them wheel away the dead man. What was the connection that seemed to elude him? The last rites? That had come before … . Quickly, he looked at the bed beyond Schwarz, who was napping peacefully at the moment. The other bed was empty.

  With something like panic, John twisted around to look toward the far end of the ward, where he had also seen the priest pause for the ritual. He propped himself up on an elbow to see better. The bed was still occupied, but the patient seemed to be breathing hard, struggling to get enough air. An orderly or medic stood over him, watching and waiting. John sank back on the bed, completely exhausted from the effort, and still trying to interpret what he had seen. At least two deaths today … Probably three, the way the patient down the aisle looked and sounded. But there was still something he did not quite comprehend. All three had received last rites from the priest, but who decided when such a ceremony was appropriate? How was it decided? It was hard to think. His fevered brain pounded in delirium, trying to solve the mystery, or even to decide whether one existed. Maybe it had something to do with the doctors on their rounds. Yes, that must be it. They had marked three patients by clipping an orange card to the charts. Those three were now dead or dying. It did not seem very important now.

  He fell asleep still thinking about it. He was also having more trouble breathing. At times he felt that the thick, gluelike secretions in his throat were blocking off his lungs completely.

  His confusion deepened. He slept and woke and slept again. There was no longer any night and day. He had no idea how long he had been there. He drifted through a mindless fog of discomfort and a need for air. He longed to be in the lodge of his parents on the open prairie, to relive the memories of early childhood. Then there had been no worries, no cares, few responsibilities. It had been a long time ago.

  He dreamed … . Or maybe it was all one endless dream, a part of the living and dying and crossing over … . What his Arapaho friend George Shakespear called the Great Mystery.

  People from his past drifted through the dream sequence. Especially women. His mother, sad and tired beyond her years, as she prepared to send her son away to white man’s school. Old White Horse, the teacher. There were many things she had not understood, but she had tried, as she saw fit … . Some of the girls at Carlisle: friends, but not really close.

  Startlingly plain was his vision of the golden-haired Jane Langtry. She leaned over his bed, smiling, gently encouraging him to try to eat a little more of the broth that she tried to feed him with a spoon. He roused a little … . No, his vision focused and the angelic form and figure was not his first love. It was Nurse Jackson. The two had become one in his muddled brain. The hair was the same, the blue eyes … . He drifted off again.

  There were times when he could not distinguish whether he was asleep and dreaming or awake and hallucinating. Or was there really any difference? Once he saw Hebbie, standing beside the bed as she had once before … .The dreadful experience on what he had come to think of as the Death Ship. It was different this time. He knew that she had crossed over, and he wanted to join her. He reached out toward her, and she smiled gently, just out of reach.

  No, my dear, not yet.

  He was never sure afterward whether Hebbie had voiced the actual words, or just the thought. He woke, in the darkness of the hospital ward, lighted only by a dim bulb at each end of the room. It was filled with the smells of sickness and death, and sounds of racking coughs and labored breathing. He wondered how many days he had been here, and how many more he had to suffer.

  He slept again.

  When he next awoke, it was daylight, and the little party of doctors was in the process of daily rounds. They stood at the foot of his bed, talking quietly. One of them stepped to him and placed a listening device on John’s chest for a few moments. Back at the foot of the bed, a whispered consultation … The clerk took something from his clipboard and reached toward John’s chart. There was little effort to conceal what it was: an orange card, the size of a man’s hand.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  It didn’t seem to matter much. The party moved on. The orange card had simply become a part of the Great Mystery that had gone on since Creation.

  The nurse lagged behind for a moment, smiled at him, and tucked the blanket around his shoulders.

  “Try to move around a bit, John,” she urged. “Breathe deep. We have to get you moving.”

  She cares, he thought, and his heart was good for a moment, as he slipped back to sleep. He was too tired to follow her suggestions.

  The next morning, he woke with the sickly sweet smell of incense again in his nostrils. The priest was across the aisle, mumbling over another patient in another bed. John could see the chart at the foot of that bed, and its orange card. He dozed off again, only to be wakened by the nurse.

  “John … Wake up. This is the Army chaplain, Father O’Reilly. He’s come to see you … .”

  John was wide awake now, the figure of the robed priest looming above him like the specter in his worst nightmares. The little incense pot on its silver chain swung back and forth in front of his eyes.

  “Bless you, my son,” Father O’Reilly said.

  John was wide awake, now, and his anger was rising.

  “I’m not your son!” he screamed. “I am Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull. I’m not even Catholic.” Desperately, he turned to the nurse. “Get this son of a bitch away from me!” he pleaded.

  “Now, calm down, John,” said the nurse. “He’s only here to help you.”

  “Like hell, he is! He wants to put me under, like he did the others. Get him out of here!”

  The chaplain shrugged and turned away, followed by the nurse. They withdrew a few steps and engaged in conversation, then moved on down the aisle.

  John sank back on his pillow, soaked with sweat and breathing hard. The effort had completely exhausted him.

  After a little while, Nurse Jackson returned, and brought a cup of soup. She sat in a chair next to the bed.

  “Now, let’s try some of this, John.”

  “I’m too tired. Maybe later …”

  “All right. But a little bit for now. Try it for me.”

  He was weak and still shaking from the rage he had just experienced, but she steadied his head and handled the spoon skillfully. The broth slid down smoothly, and the warmth was good in spite of the soreness in his throat. With much help and encouragement, he managed to take most of the cup of broth.

  “Good!” praised the nurse. “Now, get some rest. I’ll be back later.”

  He was already nearly asleep.

  By the next morning, the empty beds vacated by the fatalities of the day were occupied by two new victims of the flu. John paid little attention. He had slept soundly after the exertion of the incident with the priest. That puzzled him a little. He had been dimly aware that in the Army there were chaplains: preachers, so to speak, for soldiers of various faiths. There must have been a misunderstanding of some sort. If John had a deep-seated faith of any kind, it certainly was not Roman Catholic. If he had been asked about his religion, he didn’t know what he would have said. He still had great respect
for the old ways of his people. But, in recent years, he had had little contact with any form of religion. The fast-moving life on the Wild West Show circuit, the travel, the long trips … His life with the Hundred and One had not lent itself well to either the ways of his people, or to the Protestant ethic of the mission schools. He could not even remember some of the more recent years.

  He watched suspiciously as the priest entered on his grim daily rounds … . Up the aisle, speaking here and there to a patient, a casual nod or gesture. John was watching more closely now. He had become personally involved.

  The priest stopped at a bed with an orange tag at the far end of the room and performed his ritual. Too bad, thought John, as the sprinkling and mumbling proceeded. He felt his anger rising.

  One other stop for last rites on the way back down this side of the aisle, and the priest moved on toward where John lay, tense and angry. Without hesitation, he stepped between John’s bed and that of the obnoxious Schwarz.

  “Bless you, my son—,” he began.

  John flew into a rage.

  “Get away from me, you bastard!” he screamed. “You’re not sendin’ me across!”

  He rose on one elbow.

  “Now, now,” soothed the chaplain. “I’m here to help … .”

  John turned to the nurse, who stood pale and wide-eyed at the foot of the bed.

  “Get him away!” he yelled.

  The priest turned to the nurse.

  “I’ll come back later.”

  “Like hell!” John screamed.

  He grabbed a nearly empty soup cup from the bedside stand and threw it. The priest tried to dodge, but the heavy ceramic mug struck him on the shoulder, splattering liquid across his face and robe. Calmly, he wiped his cheek with a sleeve and turned away.

  Nurse Jackson paused at John’s side.

  “I’ll be back later,” she whispered softly.

  “Okay …”

  He was dog-tired from the exertion, and sank back to sleep.

  When he woke, it was in the quiet of the afternoon. Most of the major activity of the wards seemed to be centered around mornings, he now realized. The doctors’ rounds, the medications, enemas and footbaths and sweats, administered by orderlies and medics. There were apparently two nurses, one who seemed to be assigned to another ward across the central corridor, on the other side of the building. The nurses occasionally helped each other if a male orderly was not at hand to do some of the heavier tasks.

  He was still confused, but began to notice things that had escaped his attention before. He was still quite weak, and his thinking still muddled. He was quite frustrated that he could do little more than lift his head or raise to an elbow for a few moments. Such weakness was not a manly thing, and was little short of ridiculous.

  Later that afternoon, Schwarz was transferred to an ambulatory ward somewhere, to continue his recovery. He complained loudly all the way.

  “I ain’t well, Jackson,” he howled. “Don’t let ’em kick me out. I’m a sick man.”

  “Come on, Schwarz!” The nurse laughed. “You know you’re ready to go. Enough of your goldbricking. You need some fresh air and exercise.”

  “I’ll probably have a relapse,” whined the malingerer. “You’ll be sorry when I’m dead.”

  “You’re a long way from dead, Schwarz!” scolded the nurse. “Go on, now. Good luck to you.”

  He went out the door, still mumbling. A few of the stronger patients applauded, and the ward settled down again. By evening, Schwarz’s bed was occupied again by a very sick patient.

  The next morning John awoke feeling a little more alert. Maybe I’m better, he decided. He attempted to sit up and decided that it was a false impression. He was still far too weak, and it was not worth the effort, even to breathe more deeply. It was painful to do so, and his head whirled. He felt as he had when he’d fainted out by the flagpole … . The buzzing in his ears, his vision swimming and blurring. I’ll never be well, he thought dejectedly as he sank back, his breathing shallow to protect against the pain in his chest. Sleep came again. Time seemed meaningless, and he didn’t care if it was night or day.

  Once more, he was wakened and roused slightly when the doctors came on rounds, and dozed off when they left. He paid little attention to their conversation. He didn’t much care.

  The next time he wakened, it was again in what had become a familiar ritual. He was approached by the priest with his dark, threatening robe and smoking incense, who loomed above him in a dreamlike episode.

  “Don’t come near me!” John yelled. “Jackson! Help me. Get this dog shit away from me!”

  “Be calm, son,” crooned the priest. “I’m here to help.”

  “Bullshit!” screamed John. “You killed that fella yesterday! Leave me alone, you fat bastard!”

  The priest shook his head, puzzled, and moved on.

  There was yet one more incident when the priest attempted to carry out his ritual, with the same result. John did not become physically violent, but it was largely because of caution on the part of the chaplain. John merely cursed him at a distance.

  The next day after that, the priest maintained a careful space between them. He merely nodded from the aisle as he passed. John Buffalo, already up on his elbows and ready to hurl obscenities, settled back with a barely audible curse under his breath.

  The one bright spot in his gloomy world was the golden-haired nurse. She was helpful and kind to everyone. The medics and orderlies seemed to have the highest respect for her. She had a rare quality occasionally found in special people: She made everyone feel better. Nurse Jackson could enter the ward, her presence and her smile lighting the day, and every man there felt that she had come especially to see him. It was not a matter of competition for her attention. There was enough of the gift to go around. As the people of John’s early childhood years might have said, “She has a powerful medicine.” She could even carry it off without creating jealousy among those in her care—possibly the most difficult task of all.

  He was gaining a little strength, but progress was slow. Each morning patients at one stage of recovery were subjected to a treatment called “cupping,” intended to remove secretions from the lungs which might have accumulated through the night. The doctors referred in this connection to “postural drainage.” In simplest terms, it involved the patient’s lying prone across the narrow cot, with shoulders and arms lower than the bed’s surface. Cupping his palms, an orderly would beat a tattoo on the back of the patient’s chest to start the thick secretions flowing. The patient would begin to cough, expectorating large quantities of foul yellow sputum.

  “It helps prevent pneumonia,” Nurse Jackson explained.

  Some of John’s wardmates had earthier explanations.

  “If you don’t cough up enough, they’ll pound the hell out of you,” stated one experienced individual.

  “Naw, it ain’t that,” argued another soldier. “Them orderlies just like to beat the snot out of a helpless patient.”

  The orderly grinned. “That’s right, Kesterson,” he jibed. “More fun to pound on some guys than others. But you’re gettin’ well, ain’t you?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Very special to John were the rare times when Nurse Jackson would assist him in eating. He was not strong enough yet to sit up and handle regular food for an entire meal. From the beginning, she had been instrumental in inducing him to eat. She had become so special to him that he would have done almost anything to please her. How could he have refused the request of an angel to drink the broth or finish the gruel in his breakfast bowl?

  And he was better now. He could tell, it was actually happening. His appetite improved. Not only was he able to chew better food, but his sense of taste was returning. Some things actually tasted good.

  “John, tell me about you,” she said one day as she assisted him with his food. It was the first meal he had been offered that would have to be cut with a knife and fork, so it was a special occasion. He was tired b
efore he finished cutting, so Nurse Jackson had stopped to help him.

  “Not much to tell, ma’am,” he said, embarrassed.

  “You’ve been a cowboy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was possibly more embarrassed than even his basic shyness would have demanded. He could not forget that he had actually cursed a holy man in the presence of this angel. She had never mentioned it, but it hung there between them every day.

  It was especially bad when the chaplain made his rounds. Sometimes the priest would make eye contact, and John could feel the disapproval like a living thing between them. Usually Nurse Jackson would accompany the priest, and John scrupulously avoided her gaze. He fully expected that some day, he must face a scolding from her about his behavior. Until then, maybe his punishment would merely be the guilt that he felt when he saw the dark, disapproving glance of the priest.

  “You enlisted here,” the nurse was saying. “Are you from this area, John?”

  “No, ma’am. Dakota, originally.”

  “But you’re educated.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Indian schools. Carlisle, Haskell.”

  “I see. But you cowboyed here?”

  “Well, no. In Wyoming. I knew Captain McCoy, worked for him a little while. But I didn’t know he was here.”

  “Wait a minute, John. You’re confusing me. You started to cowboy in Wyoming?”

  “Oh, no. At the 101 Ranch.”

  “The Wild West Show?”

  “Yes, ma’am … Most of the time. I left them for a couple of years to work with the Olympics.”

  Now he was becoming quite uncomfortable. He was afraid that it would sound as if he were bragging.

  “Never mind,” he said. “It wasn’t much.”