Day of the Bomb by Steve Stroble
“Yeah? Who cares, Mr. Perfect Poo-poo?”
Jimbo turned to his hangers-on. “Mr. Perfect Poo-poo? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stanley ran home and asked Thelma what getting fixed meant. She blushed and told him to wait until his father came home. Jason sighed and made an appointment with Dr. Graves after he explained what getting fixed was but could not say why it had happened to his wife. He reminded Dr. Graves of his long ago promise.
“As I recall you said if I had any questions after Stanley was born I could contact you. Well, Stanley has one I can’t answer.” He poked his son’s ribs.
“Why’d you fix my mama so’s I can’t have brothers and sisters like other kids?”
Dr. Graves stood and waddled to the front of his desk and perched on it so that he looked down on the interlopers. “I’ll try to keep it simple for your simple mind. Lower class and poor people are overpopulating the entire planet. I suspected that you had a mental defect, which meant any siblings might also. I did the humane thing. Besides, she was bleeding internally. I had to remove her uterus or she would have died.” A lie, the last two sentences caused his left hand to twitch.
Stanley blinked and turned to his dad, whose face was red and jaw clenched.
“Look, son. It’s social Darwinism, survival of the fittest. I adhere to the science of eugenics. One of our founders, Margaret Sanger said it best; ‘more children from the fit, less from the unfit.’ Unfortunately, our movement has never taken hold like it should.”
Jason’s fingernails dug into the armrests of his chair. “So just because you think we’re poor white trash, you fixed Thelma?”
“No. All that was just a distant secondary consideration, of course. Because of your wife’s bleeding I had to operate.” This time both hands twitched.
Jason left muttering and Stanley with his head bowed. Dr. Graves went to his files and fumbled through A to D until he located Thelma’s. He added a notation to the April 12, 1947 chart: “Hysterectomy performed due to excessive bleeding.” No sense in having to explain his actions to some medical board in case Jason or Thelma complained. After finishing that day’s last appointment, he drove to Joslinberg to visit his son’s family, especially its newest member. He loved playing the part of doting grandfather.
“And how is the little future Dr. Graves today?” He shoved his face into the crib until the eight-month old could touch it. “The future depends on you. Maybe by the time you are in practice, birth control will be mandated to be free by federal law and abortion will eliminate all the rest of any unnecessary babies that try to slip through the cracks. I’m counting on you, Grandson, to make a better world than the awful one I’ve had to endure.”
***
Dan coughed nervously after Stanley told him of Dr. Graves’ explanation. Theirs was a unique confessional, an old wooden dock that extended into Lake Madisin. “I’ve heard some stories about him.”
“What?”
“That he does secret abortions for girls who get knocked up. One girl got some infection afterwards and almost died. They sent her to the hospital over in Joslinberg to cover it up so he wouldn’t get in trouble.”
“Oh. What’s an abortion?”
Dan answered in simple terms.
Count Rockula’s Top 40 Countdown, his weekly tribute to an ever changing order of songs, old and new, ended their conversation as Johnny Rivers’ Secret Agent Man faded and The Beach Boys Sloop John B began. One of his favorite songs, Stanley sang along. Dan joined in on the chorus.
“Let me go home, I want to go home…”
Monday, Monday replaced the Caribbean mood with words about the day of the week that songwriter John Phillips said caused crying all day long. A full moon lit the night enough to cast shadows. The only sounds intruding on the Count’s magic beamed by radio were the bass, bluegill, and crappie coming to the lake’s surface.
“I guess we’re lucky it’s Friday and not Monday,” Stanley said.
“Yeah.” Dan tensed when a car squealed to a stop in the otherwise deserted parking lot. Its glass pack mufflers emitted exploding cherry bomb sounds that he knew came from only a handful of Madisin’s cars, including Jimbo’s 1957 Chevy. When he saw the silhouette of the parked car’s jutting tail fins he grabbed Stanley. “Let’s get out of here!”
They started creeping down the 100-fooot dock but a bulky figure blocked their escape.
“It’s the retards, little Danny boy and big bad singer man Stanley.”
A beer bottle flew by their heads.
“Cut it out, Jimbo.” Dan tried to block the advancing hulk.
Jimbo answered by shoving him headfirst onto the wooden planks. As Dan regained his footing Jimbo sucker punched him. Dan crumpled and lay still. “Seven, eight, nine, ten. The winner and still undefeated world champion, Jimbo McManey!” Jimbo held his arms aloft and celebrated his imagined victory. He turned toward the one he had mocked since fourth grade.
Stanley stumbled as he backed down the dock. “You hurt Dan. He’s not getting up.”
“He’s a pansy. Just like you.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Don’t be a feared, matey. I’m just Captain Kidd, the nastiest pirate that sails the Seven Seas.” He thrust an invisible cutlass at his prey.
“Get away.”
“A feared of me saber? It’ll only hurt a bit as I run you through.”
Stanley’s last backward step found air and then water. He thrashed at the dark water until it foamed. “Help me! I can’t swim.”
Jimbo grunted. “Don’t look at me. I’m wearing my new madras shirt and penny loafers. I’ll get pansy man to save you.” He staggered to his car and grabbed a half full beer bottle from a rider and returned to Dan. “I baptize you in the name of the…” Jimbo poured the sudsy brew on Dan’s face. “Get up. Dufus needs you. He fell in.”
Dan moaned and crawled toward Stanley’s screams. They had ceased by the time Dan dove into the chilly water. Madisin Lake’s muddy bottom had sent a blanket of silt heavenward that covered Stanley like a shroud as he sank into it. The moonlight penetrated the murky liquid even less as Dan dove in and further stirred the water, hands searching for his friend. After five dives and finding nothing but tires, rocks, and fishing tackle that cut and poked him, Dan swam to shore. He ran to their bikes and hopped onto the faster of the two, Stanley’s 3-speed Stingray. Legs frantically pumping, butt sliding up and down the long banana shaped seat, Dan pedaled to the nearest house, a half mile distant.
***
“Okay, Jimbo. Then what happened?” The detective looked up from his notes.
“I went back to my car and we drove off. I didn’t see Dan in my headlights as we passed the dock so I knew he had gone into the water to get Stanley. You need to talk to him.”
“Did you push Stanley into the water?”
“No way, man. I already told you so. Look, I’m missing out on the big wrestling tournament today because of you and your dumb questions. Coach is going to be plenty mad.”
The detective scowled and told Jimbo to leave. A captain joined him in the lunchroom, which doubled as the interrogation room.
“What do you think?”
“Who knows? The three clowns that were with Jimbo are no help. One says he was passed out. Another said he was barfing his guts out at the lake. I believe it since they put away two cases of beer. The third said he was trying to help the sick one out. They’re like the statue of the three monkeys; see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
“I’ll recommend an inquest just so maybe one of them will remember something else.”
“Yeah.”
***
Two hundred seventy nine mourners gathered for Stanley’s funeral, a large congregation for Madisin. Afterwards, Dan tried to comfort Thelma but she shook her head and excused herself as fresh tears fell. He felt isolated as others congregated in groups, mostly to speculate on “what really happened the night he drowned.” If he approached any, they dissol
Jason was tangled in a conversation with Madisin’s mayor. When Jason motioned for Dan to sit down beside him the mayor winked and rose to press the flesh with those gathered.
“I’m glad you came over. You rescued me from Mr. Blabbermouth. He’s always trumpeting on about his party. Your mom tells me you want to enlist after you graduate next month.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Did she tell you to talk me out of it?”
“No. She just asked me to tell you what being in the military is really like. That’s all.”
“Oh. Mainly I just need to get away from Madisin. I’ve been stuck here all my life.”
“So that’s it. You got Green Grass Fever.”
“What’s that?”
“It makes you think that the grass is always greener somewhere besides where you are.”
“Like you wanting to go back to Monkey Island?”
Jason smiled like he did when he was down to his last checker piece or had been dealt a bad hand of cards. “Yeah. I guess so. You know what cured me of that?”
“No.”
“The war in Korea. I saw too many men die that shouldn’t of. There was this one officer who polished his helmet all the time until it gleamed. It reflected the least little bit of light. His men told him not to do it, that he needed mud on his helmet so the enemy couldn’t see it. So one night there was just enough moonlight that some North Korean or Chinese sniper aimed five inches lower that that shiny helmet and killed him. If you want to go away so bad, do like your brother Karl and go off to college. Get yourself a student deferment to keep yourself from being drafted.”
“Karl got through college on a Navy ROTC scholarship. Now he’s on a ship in the Mediterranean somewhere. The only way I can go to college would be to do what he did, get a scholarship. But my grades aren’t good enough.”
Jason pulled a tattered newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket. “This is what Truman says about why he fired General MacArthur during Korea: ‘I fired him because he wouldn’t respect the authority of the President…I didn’t fire him because he was a dumb son of a bitch, although he was, but that’s not against the law for generals. If it was, half to three quarters of them would be in jail.’” He folded the paper. “You see, that’s the attitude even more nowadays. Civilians like LBJ and Secretary of Defense McNamara micromanage the military. They’re afraid to delegate anything anymore.”
Jason accompanied Dan to the recruiter’s office a week later as he signed up for a delayed enlistment. He made certain that the recruiter wrote 91A-10 in the field marked MOS on the contract. “We just want to be sure you don’t write 11-B for infantryman by mistake, Sergeant. Dan here wants to be a medic.”
The recruiter grumbled.
Chapter 27
Basic training for Dan was at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. His drill sergeants were lifers intent on instilling enough knowledge and commonsense into their charges to keep them from ending up as a statistic in the newspaper back home. The oldest had served in WW II; the youngest had one tour of duty in Vietnam and could not wait to go back there. He snickered at the latest cycle under his command.
“It’s been said before by others but bears repeating. When you walked through that gate you became mine. I am your dad, mom, coach, priest, rabbi, minister, doctor, and the cop who busted some of your sorry butts. For the next few months I own you, body and soul. If you fail me, I will fail you and send you back a cycle so that another drill sergeant can make you into a soldier and keep you from coming home in a body bag.”
That night Dan awoke at 1 a.m. to unfamiliar sounds. Down the long bay of two-tiered bunks he heard boys crying, praying, and mumbling in their sleep. Their tears were sometimes accompanied by the names of sweethearts or the word mom. From then on, Dan wondered what he had agreed to for two years.
“Once your name goes on that contract, there’s no turning back. They own you.” Jason had warned him outside of the recruiter’s office.
Basic training proved to be that, basic. Chants were learned to memorize military tenets.
“This is my weapon.” Hold up an imaginary M-16. “This is my gun.” Point to below one’s belt. “One is for killing, one is for fun.”
They marched everywhere: to get their heads shaved, to take tests, to chow three times a day, to PT, to the range. At first the drill sergeants’ calls were constant.
“Your left, your left, your left, right, left.”
In time as marching skills improved that gave way to cadences that everyone chanted. There were ones about Vietnam and Charlie Cong, about mom and your girl back home, and about some scoundrel named Jody who at that very moment was stealing your girl away. The only day off was Sundays, when troops could visit a church service and relax. Mail call was always welcomed.
“Stewart.”
“Here.” He grabbed two letters and smelled them for any trace of perfume.
“McGinty…Abrams…Smith…Barker…Washington…Daniels…Rhinehardt…”
Dan’s letter was from Mom. With no steady girlfriend back in Madisin, Dan heard mostly from her and Jason, although one girl from his graduating class wrote to say she way praying for him, especially if he went to Vietnam. After basic training came AIT at Ft. Sam Houston, Texas for ten weeks of training as a combat medic One of the first classes was an orientation. The E-7 promised little.
“Some of you will get lucky and sent off to Korea or Europe where you might work at a hospital or dispensary. Some of you smart ones enlisted and are going off to a V.A. hospital or fort near your home because you put that into your contract. But a lot of you are going in country to the wonderful Republic of Vietnam where you will apply first aid to the wounded. Since you made it through basic training I can call you men and soldiers. All the wimps, pansies, misfits, and rebels washed out already. So you are the cream. Now because you could end up in any number of situations we have to teach you a little bit of everything. You will learn to give shots, take blood, take vital signs, stop bleeding, treat for shock, start IVs, assist in births, and many other functions. At the end of each week you will take a test. If you do not pass the test you will be recycled back a week to another company. If you end up failing three tests you will be sent off to cook school or maybe learn how to drive a six-by truck capable of carrying tons of men and equipment. Some of you will be tempted to go AWOL. I advise against it. If you’re gone over thirty days you become a deserter. Keep your nose clean.”
Dan took good notes during the classes, which lasted eight hours a day, five days a week. He learned about cells in the human body, that a group of related cells is an organ and that skin was the largest organ of the body and most vulnerable organ in Vietnam.
“You will treat skin constantly if you go to Nam. There’s jungle rot, trench foot, and jock itch to name a few common ailments there,” an instructor said.
After being instructed on how to give shots and take blood samples, the fledging medics practiced on each other.
“Aspirate the plunger before you inject that dose to see if you hit a blood vessel.” At the end of the session the teacher help up a syringe full of blood. “As you can see, sometimes you hit a vessel. You don’t want to inject whatever you are giving directly into the bloodstream.”
Grainy black and white movies broke up the seemingly endless lectures. In one, an army doctor delivered a baby; the mother was a nurse and his wife. Another film showed an amputation of a leg in a field hospital. A third was a portrayal of a rushed operating room technician who hurried through the pre-op sterilization process of his hands and forearms. Some of the remaining bacteria from the unwashed areas transferred to the patient’s incision and entered his bloodstream. At the end of the drama, the post-op patient was shown hobbling on a cane, a casualty of the technician’s incomplete washing.
Dan filled two notebooks and passed every test. Only one from his company went AWOL but turned himself in on the twenty-ninth day of
“Your company had the lowest rate of AWOLs and deserters so far this year. I know you will all continue to uphold your high standards during your duty with the U.S. Army.”
Afterwards, Dan commented on how superior he and his fellow graduates were. A nearby chain smoker scoffed. “They give the same speech every time, Rhinehardt. Wise up.” Private Catlin was one of those who had been given a choice by a judge, three years in jail or three years in the army. His jaded view of life had tempered Dan’s fading optimism from day one of AIT.
With little left to say, the medics, a gold colored caduceus shining on each one’s collar, departed San Antonio, most by plane or bus, the rest by train, car, and motorcycles for nineteen days of leave before having to report for duty, some at stateside forts, others to Ft. Dix, New Jersey for transport to Europe and the rest to the West Coast for travel to Korea, Hawaii, or Vietnam.
***
Having only one plan during leave, Dan decided to take care of business first, a thrashing of Jimbo McManey. Fat gone, muscles hard, testosterone at its peak, trained in hand to hand combat, Dan knew his mission required care. He had to catch Jimbo with no nearby spectators. After conking him senseless from behind with the blackjack he had bought during a weekend pass in San Antonio, Dan would tie up Jimbo in a place where he could be found naked; his clothes deposited in a trash can. Dan hoped the humiliation would haunt his enemy for life. Attacking Jimbo from behind was crucial. No sense in letting him know his identity, which would only ensure vengeance from Jimbo and his gang. Dan decided to study his prey to learn if his habits dictated any isolated times. First he went to the wrecking yard where Jimbo had worked when Dan had left Madisin.
“What are you looking for, son?” The yard’s owner yelled at him.
“Uh, something fixable that will get me around.”
The grease and oil stained man shook his head. “You’re looking in the wrong section. These are the totaled ones. Follow me.”
Dan obeyed. He pretended to scan the rows of wrecked cars but watched for the one he hated.
“Here you go. This section has mostly just front end damage or something that needs some body work.”