Now as they moved forward, Mark walked upright, and his eyes were not as alert as they should have been, for the lieutenant had spoken of this patrol as being mere routine. They were fanned out but came to a thick portion of jungle with one trail. “I’ll take the point,” he called out, and he watched as the squad formed behind him. He started moving through the trees, looking up at the sun that glittered through, almost blinding him. He thought suddenly of Prue and wondered what she was doing at this exact moment. He had learned to take refuge in thoughts of his family, and now as he seemed to see her strong features, her dark eyes, and black hair, a smile touched his lips.
The shattering outburst of fire came as such a shock that for one split second he could not think; then his training came to his aid and he whirled, saying, “Ambush! Take cover!”
But then as he looked down the line, he saw all three of the other squad had been cut down by the automatic fire. He saw a flash of movement up in a tree and opened up on it. He saw one body fall but had no more time. The fire was increasing, and he ran back and fell down beside Harold Stasom. “Harold!” he cried out. He rolled the man over and saw that a bullet had taken him in the temple. Stasom’s eyes were open, and Mark knew he was dead. Rage and anger came to Mark then as it never had, but he moved along until he found the other two men, Mayfield and Cantor, also dead. Madness came to Mark Stevens then. He was aware of shouts from behind him, that help was coming, but he straightened up, walked back into the fire of the VC, shooting when he saw a flash of movement knowing that he was a dead man, but not caring. The loss of his three friends had pushed him over the edge, and he wanted to kill every Vietcong he could before they got him.
He never knew when he went down; he felt no pain at all. One moment he heard the sound of firing as the sun was coming through the trees in golden bars; then he was firing his automatic weapon, and finally there was nothing.
He heard voices murmuring very close to him, but when he opened his eyes he could not see. “Why is it so dark?” he said. Instantly hands were on his chest, but they could not hold him. He reached up and found that his head was bandaged but not his eyes.
“Take it easy, Marine!” The voice was steady, but Mark was filled with panic. “Why can’t I see?”
“Don’t worry. I’m Doctor Johnson. You took a wound in your head, and it’s disturbed your vision.”
“But I’m blind! I can’t see anything!”
The two doctors that bent over Mark stared at each other. Doctor Johnson shook his head as the other started to speak. “These things happen sometimes. Probably the optic nerve has been jarred.”
Mark let the hands force him back down on the cot, and Doctor Johnson said, “Just lie still. You’re not badly hurt, Stevens, and your vision will come back.”
Mark lay back. He could hear the activities in the field hospital. In his mind he could see the bodies of Mayfield, Stasom, and Cantor all dead, and yet he was alive. He was not aware of it, but tears began to flow from his eyes and run down his temples.
Johnson continued with his work, and an hour later Captain Sipes came to his office. “How is Stevens, Doc?”
“I can’t figure it out.” Johnson shook his head. “He got a pretty bad head wound; we had to put some bones together and a little steel plate in, but he says he can’t see. I can’t figure it.”
“Were his eyes harmed?”
“Not a bit of it. Be careful. Go on in and see him. Try to reassure him. I don’t think it’s physical, although I can’t be sure until we get an X-ray.”
Sipes nodded, then went down the hall to the ward. He moved down the row of cots, saw Stevens, and went over and sat down. “Well, Mark, I’m glad to see you made it.” He tried to make his voice cheerful, but there was something wrong. Something dreadfully wrong. “How do you feel?”
“They’re all dead,” Mark whispered.
Sipes knew what was going on in Stevens’ mind. These fellows go through so much they’re like brothers, he thought. He bit his lip then said, “I’m afraid so, Mark.”
“They’re all dead—and I’m alive. Why’s that, Captain?”
“Nobody knows about these things.” Sipes laid his hand on Mark’s shoulder and said, “You’ve got to pull yourself out of this, Mark. You’ll be going home before long. You’ll be all right then.”
Mark’s eyes were open, but they were staring blindly to the left of Captain Sipes. There was something disconcerting about it, and Sipes could not speak for a time. He did not know how to talk to this man who had suffered the loss of his three closest friends in an instant. Finally he said, “Well, you just have to go from where you are, son.”
“All dead except me,” Mark whispered. Bitterness changed his voice, and he lifted his head and stared with blind eyes at the wall, saying, “I deserve to be dead—not just blind!”
Part 4
HARVESTTIME
(1969)
19
“WHAT GOOD AM I TO ANYBODY?”
Decades get old just as do the human beings that dwell in them. The sixties seemed to age suddenly. In 1968 violence scored the nation bringing grief to hearts everywhere. Martin Luther King was assassinated, and Robert Kennedy was shot to death while pursuing the presidency of the United States.
Lyndon Johnson, worn down by the increasing pressures against the Vietnam conflict, refused to run again, knowing, no doubt, that he would be soundly defeated. His refusal to run spurred a hot contest for the presidency, which was won by Richard Nixon but only after the Democratic convention was torn by vicious riots on the floor of the great hall.
Those looking for good news were cheered when Apollo 8 orbited the moon, and for a time, at least, America had genuine heroes to look up to.
The last year of the decade was not a happy one. As a matter of course, the great ones passed away from the scene, including the great novelist John Steinbeck and the great leader of World War II Dwight Eisenhower.
The world seemed to deviate into violence. Cuban skyjackings became epidemic, and violence raged in Ireland. Bombs ripped marketplaces in Jerusalem as Yasir Arafat led the Palestinian forces in the never-ending battle in the Middle East. To offset this man, Golda Meir became the fourth Premier of Israel, the first woman ever to serve in such an office.
All over the broad land of America things seemed to be falling apart. The old ways were maintained by a remnant, but homes and marriages were under attack by movements that seemed determined to replace the Judeo-Christian ethic with a morality that was almost nonexistent. The beer commercial that became famous was “You only get one trip around, so live it with all the gusto you can!” License plates began to appear urging people “If it feels good—do it!”
As the century wound down, the people of God were searching desperately for a foundation, something that would keep their children and grandchildren from following the pathways that led to destruction. Billy Graham preached to more people than any other man in history. His message was so simple that many learned theologians looked down upon him, but wherever he went, when he spoke the words, “I want you to get up out of your seats…” people rose and came flooding to the front of the arenas to give their hearts to Jesus Christ. It seemed to many that though it was a dark hour in America’s history, still, the light of God’s promises was there waiting to be seized. Many hoped for a sweeping revival, not only in America but in the whole world.
As always, when Mark first awoke, panic shot through him like a bolt of lightning. All his life he had awakened quickly from even the soundest sleep, opening his eyes totally aware of his surroundings. Now, however, as he opened his eyes and the world remained black as ebony, terror ripped through him. Lying there with his eyes wide open, his body tense, and a screaming in his mind, he heard a sound of music, and time and place came rushing back to him.
Marty Robbins was crooning “El Paso,” the singer’s fruity voice made metallic by the cheap radio that Oscar Tatum kept by his bedside. Slowly Mark relaxed, and as the panic disappea
red it was replaced by bitterness. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, almost like a child who had been threatened with punishment. But he could not shut out the sound of the country western song, and soon Robbins was replaced by Johnny Cash singing “A Boy Named Sue.” Rolling over and sitting up, Mark waited for Oscar to speak, and when his roommate’s voice came, rich and thick with the sounds of Mississippi, he knew there would be no sleep left.
“Climb out of that bed, Mark! Time to go get us some bray-fuss.” Ossie could not seem to pronounce breakfast correctly. In his slurred, southern dialect, the word, along with others, was almost unintelligible.
“I don’t want any breakfast,” Mark muttered. He groped around on the table beside his bed for the glass, and with his other hand managed to find the water pitcher. He poured some water, drank it thirstily, then stood up and began his pilgrimage to the bathroom that he and Oscar shared with two other patients. Oscar said, “Sho you want bray-fuss! We gonna have ham, and eggs, and grits. That no’count cook done promised me grits. Hard to find grits in Chicago, but he said he’d come up with some.”
Ignoring Oscar’s cheerful prattle, Mark felt the wall until he touched the edges of the doorway to the bathroom and then moved to the sink. He had been at the Veterans Hospital in Chicago for only three days, and they had not been happy ones. He opened the door of the medicine chest, pulled out his safety razor and a can of aerated shaving cream, and put them beside the faucet. He filled the sink with water, found the fresh washcloth where it always was, and the soap. He washed his face, listening as he had to as Oscar turned the radio up; Roy Acuff was singing the classic “Great Speckled Bird.” Mark winced at the whiny voice of the star of the Grand Ole Opry and tried to shut it out.
Grasping the shaving cream can, he squirted some in his right hand and applied it to his face. He groped until he found the razor again and began shaving. He found himself struggling, peering ahead trying to see the mirror, but all was black as the deepest midnight. He had discovered how hard it was to shave; this had come as a shock to him as had many things. He was so accustomed to looking into the mirror that it was second nature, and now he found that his blindness made the act of shaving even more difficult than others. He managed to cut his chin, but he finally washed off the shaving cream, put the razor and soap back into the cabinet, and found the comb. He ran it through his hair carelessly, again finding himself looking in the mirror. What do you expect to see? he asked himself bitterly. You’re blind as a bat, and what does it matter what you look like?
Finishing his abusing, he returned to the room and managed to drive the toes of his right foot against his bed. He cried out sharply in pain, then caught his breath.
“You better watch where you’re goin’, Mark,” Oscar said quickly.
Mark felt the man’s touch on his arm, and violently shrugged away from him. “I don’t need any help!” he said.
“Of course you don’t. You get into yo clothes, and we’ll go get some bray-fuss.”
Mark put on his summer uniform and felt around until his hand encountered the cane that was propped against the wall. Oscar said, “Let’s go, Marine,” and Mark heard him moving across the floor. He had never seen Oscar Tatum, but he could tell that he was a big man by the sound of his feet, and when he had shaken hands with him it was like putting his hand in a wrench. Oscar had broken the ice by saying, “Maybe you don’t like black folks.”
Mark had summoned a grin, saying, “When you’re blind, there aren’t any black folks.”
“Guess that’s right. Maybe we ought to blind everybody that don’t like folks whose skin is different.”
“That wouldn’t be the answer,” Mark had said. “What’s in a man’s heart is there whether they can see or not.”
Oscar had tried to get acquainted with Mark but had found it difficult. Time and again he tried to talk about Mark’s problem, but Mark had shut him down shortly, leaving nothing to be said.
As they moved down the hall, Mark was aware of the sounds of voices and of footsteps on the tile floor. He had discovered that his hearing had sharpened. He had always heard that when you lose one sense the others kick in to compensate, and now he realized that he could hear the thin, tinny voice of Charlie Masterson even though the marine was probably fifty feet behind him and dozens of others were talking loudly. Masterson was talking about the women that he had had in Chicago before he had gone into the Marines, and Mark picked up every word of it.
As they moved along, Mark kept the cane in front of him, but he was aware that Oscar was staying close beside him. He wasn’t putting his hand on him, just walking so close that their arms brushed. Mark knew this was the big marine’s way of offering help without seeming to do so, and he had a quick surge of gratitude but said nothing.
Skillfully Oscar managed to lead the way to the line of men who were going to pick up their food. He handed Mark a plate and flatware, talking rapidly about the days when he had played defensive guard for Old Miss.
Mark moved down the line with his plate out and felt the weight of food being put in it. When he got to the end of the line, Oscar saw to it that he had a mug of coffee, then said, “There’s two places over there.” Mark felt, as always, as he walked across the floor that he was about to step off a precipice or into a wall, but somehow when he got to the table with Oscar’s help, he found himself seated and propped the cane against the seat.
“I’m gonna go get us some of them grits that no’count cook promised. You wait right here.”
Mark sat there listening to the talk of the patients around him. They sounded happier than they should have, for he knew from his brief stay there that some of them were terribly wounded. Some were on crutches, and some were in wheelchairs, but cut off as he was by his lack of sight, he had difficulty keeping them straight. He had heard of blind people who knew voices so well they could recognize people after meeting them only once, but that was not true of him thus far. He wondered hopelessly if he would ever be able to recognize voices like that.
“Here he is! He done got us some grits!” Oscar’s big voice boomed, and Mark felt the table shift as the big man sat down. “Now, here’s the drill,” Oscar said. “You got eggs at twelve o’clock, hash browns at twelve fifteen, bacon at twelve thirty, jelly over here beside your plate, and toast, and here’s your grits right out on the right side.”
Mark had learned to hate mealtime. He had not realized how much sight was a part of eating; he touched the plate with his left hand, put his fork down to what he assumed was the top, brought it up, and was disgusted to find it empty. He was certain that Oscar was watching him, but the marine said nothing. Making another try, Mark managed to get a heaping forkful of eggs to his mouth and groped until he found the toast and began to eat.
“How you like them grits? They ain’t as good as Mississippi grits, but they’re probably good enough for an Arkansas redneck like you, Mark.”
Mark thought of the time when someone had made fun of Oscar being from the South. He had not seen what had happened, but there had been a sudden outcry of pain, and the prankster had begged for mercy. “I just squoze his neck a little bit,” Oscar had told him. “His mammy didn’t learn him no manners, I reckon.”
Mark had no appetite and toyed with his food until finally he reached for the orange juice and managed to knock it over.
“Hey, that’s all right! I’ll get that!” a voice on his right came abruptly, and Mark felt like a fool. He rose, and without saying a word made his way out of the room, managing to bump into a table and upset more eating ware.
Oscar watched as he left and turned to face the patient who had offered to clean up the orange juice. “He ain’t doin’ no good, Phil.”
Phil Quincy looked at Oscar and said, “He’s better off than some.”
“He sho is, but he don’t know that.”
“Does he ever talk about how he got blinded?”
“He don’t talk about nothin’ much. Be better if he would.”
Mark left the building, using his cane to tap as he found the big doors that led to the outside. One of the attendants called to him, “You want me to go with you, Marine?” but he didn’t answer.
As soon as he was outside, he felt a little better. It was April, and as he moved along the walk he could smell the grass, rich and fragrant, and he heard the sound of a lawn mower going. He had always liked the smell of fresh cut grass, and now he paused for a minute to savor it. The sun beat down on his face, and he looked up at it, his eyes wide open—nothing.
Moving slowly and sweeping in front of him with the tip of the white cane, he was aware of cars passing on the highway. They were a long way off, but he could hear the big diesels as they went into a lower gear to pull up a hill. The thought came to him, I’ll never drive a car again, and somehow this hit him hard. He had always loved to drive, and now he realized that it was one of those things he had always taken for granted. Since he had lost his sight, every day brought some bitter revelation to him, and now he put that inside the little part of him that stored all the bitterness of things he would never see again.
For twenty minutes, he walked along the perimeters of the hospital, having learned the sidewalks, and finally came to a bench that an attendant had taken him to one time. His cane struck it, and he groped with his other hand until he found it, then slumped down, and holding the cane with both hands on the handle, leaned forward and put his chin down. For a long time he sat there not moving, thoughts running through his mind of days gone by. From time to time he would think of Vietnam, but he had learned quickly to turn away from that and force his mind farther back into the past. He thought of the time Bobby Stuart came to the high school and how the two of them had gone deer hunting.
His thoughts then went to Prue, as they often did. He found that he could picture her in his mind so those memories were clearer than any others. He could call up her strong features, her dark eyes and black hair, and for a time he sat there remembering their days together growing up.
Dawn of a New Day Page 22
