And Yesterday Is Gone (40 page)

“Thought this road was cleared—must have been replanted.”

“The whole thing's on fire. All that ammo they were carrying.”

“Nobody got out alive.”

Now we could smell the smoke.

The radio was crackling orders.

“This was the perfect place for an ambush with all the shit they left behind—bombed-out tanks, LEDs. Can't go forward; they're behind us, too.”

Abject fear, indecision, rage, shock and terror written on the faces of the men. The radio squawked, then the smell of roiling black smoke enveloped the tank.

I struggled to the door.

“Sit the hell down, you damned fool. Are you crazy?”

But I had the door handle clutched tightly. The curses and screaming efforts to stop me were useless as the vision of the pictures I could get of the burning tank fueled a superhuman effort. In some faraway place in my mind, the horror of that body engulfed in flames that hung from the twisted turret sickened me, but did not part me from the craving for a once-in-a-lifetime shot that would make the front page.

I opened the door and jumped, instantly hearing the unfamiliar sound of bullets hitting the sand. As I ran, as I had never run before, I stumbled over the top of the hump and fell into that shallow indentation of the earth, wishing it was ten feet deep.

My pants were clinging to my legs and I realized I had pissed myself. There goes my badge for bravery, my conscious mind informed me.

I lay there panting, my nostrils filled with the smell of the burning tank.

The thud of big shells suddenly erupted around me, and the chatter of machine guns ripping the sand paralyzed my thinking. I curled up in a ball, holding my camera to my chest. My thought process returned with the realization that I was alone somewhere in a place where people were trying to kill me.

I was too far away from home. What am I doing here? Why am I out here in the middle of a desert on my ass in the sand? For a moment, the camera and the pictures didn't seem that important. My wife, my kids. What in hell have I done?

Yeah
, my conscience sneered,
but you just had to be a hero. This trip was for your ego, Steve—for your pleasure. Life at home with wife and kiddies wasn't enough for you.

I saw a grenade drop and roll out just past me. The smoky trail was evident and didn't conceal the pineapple-shaped killer. Frantically, I rolled away, using every ounce of strength to push myself from this deadly horror.

Then it blew. I felt a flash of heat and light, and tasted the bitter chemical ignition as I felt myself driven far into the ground.

A voice bellowed, “Medic. Medic.”

As the medic administered plasma, his eyes assessed the shrapnel- riddled body, blood-soaked on one side from hip to what was left of a foot.

“That vest probably saved his life or the full force of the explosion was deflected by the hump and blasted up and out. Those poor devils in the tank should have been so lucky.”

He moved to take the pulse, and Steve's head rolled. The medic saw the fried flesh around the opening of a hole in the exact center of the forehead and muttered, “Poor devil. I'm probably wasting my time and the plasma here.”

Dr. Myers and Dr. Francis heard the heavy vehicle approaching and stood with the nurses and other personnel watching and waiting to bring in the wounded.

The back of the big truck opened to reveal the bloodied, crying, screaming, cursing wounded, and the dead.

The doctors indicated which of the injured would go into the tent for emergency treatment and who would go to the back.

Dr. Francis looked at Steve's mangled body and turned to Alfie, muttering, “This one has a pulse, barely, and a hole in his head. He's lost a lot of blood. ‘Expectant,' I'd say.” He nodded to an aide. “Take him back.”

Later the nurses talked.

“That Dr. Myers, big as a tank and black as night, screamed ‘No' and just gathered that guy up in his arms like a baby. Carried him out, and I swear I heard him singing.”

“I wonder if the good doctor isn't cracking up.”

•  •  •

From another world, I could see Alfie's contorted face and hear his anguished voice.

“I told you to come to me when you needed an appendectomy, but no, you had to go to that damn shoe salesman.” He rocked me as he had in that other lifetime.

In the quickening darkness, I heard him humming that old song I'd heard Ma sing a hundred times—something about amazing grace.

Drawn by an unseen hand, the darkness covered me like a soft, warm blanket.

“Sir, the plane is ready for takeoff.”

“Hold it—hold it. Put this man on.”

The plane's wheels had hardly left the runway when Dr. Myers had Dr. Hassé on the phone.

“Steve is in the hospital at Landstuhl, Germany. I pray to God that he will still be alive when you get there.”

Sara and Dr. Teddy drove to Rica's, finding her in her garden. When Rica reached out with a huge bouquet of flowers and said, “I was just going in to make a cup of tea. Now I won't have to drink alone.”

A sense of foreboding suddenly overcame Rica as she looked closely at Sara and their eyes met. The roses fell to the ground.

“It's Steve, isn't it? Isn't it?”

Sara didn't need to answer.

“Where is he?

“Germany. Juan has sent me for you. He has chartered a plane to bring him home. Go, Rica. I'll call Steve's mother and take care of everything here. Go.”

Dr. Teddy said, “I would be glad to go, but I don't feel qualified. There is a young neurosurgeon here—the very best. He's on vacation, but I'll see if I can locate him. His name is O'Connor.”

Within hours, the plane—piloted by a man who marveled at the resources of the rich—was in the air with three passengers, a copilot and flight crew.

On the way over, Rica sat by herself, numb with grief and conscious of nothing but her love and need. She never noticed the vast expanse of land and water. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was Steve asleep alone in their big chair.

Juan and Dr. O'Connor spoke briefly, then silence prevailed.

The plane rolled to a stop ten hours later in the busy airport of Landstuhl, Germany.

Juan gave the pilots instructions.

“Get what you need and have the plane ready to depart. We won't be long.”

The weary group followed the red line that led to a big gray building that wore a sign reading “Customs.” Inside, the line was long, but moving. Then they stepped out into the morning sunshine.

A taxi pulled to the curb and the driver quickly opened the door. Juan gave him the address. The driver had made many trips to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center where war casualties were taken and grieving relatives followed.

The driver brought them to the door of the huge, intimidating building. Rica faltered, but with Dr. O'Connor and Juan on either side of her, she composed herself. Holding Juan's hand, she walked in.

Their presence was announced and a doctor in a spotless white coat walked to meet them, introducing himself as Dr. Brenner. Three other doctors who had followed did the same.

Dr. Brenner turned down the hall, and Rica, Juan and Dr. O'Connor followed him with the others.

“He has not recovered consciousness, nor have we expected him to,” one doctor spoke as he opened the door where Steve lay swathed in bandages. The only exposed parts of him were his swollen, bruised face and his hands that lay white against the white bandages.

Rica fell to her knees, her head against the bed, and clasped Steve's cold hand. Juan stood wordless, his hand on her shoulder.

Dr. O'Connor spoke quietly to Dr. Brenner, then Juan pulled Rica gently to her feet. They were led to the doctor's office.

Dr. Brenner pulled out a chair for Rica and motioned for the men to find a seat, then stood as he spoke, quickly and plainly.

Addressing Dr. O'Connor first, he said, “Your man has been evaluated per an urgent request from Dr. Myers. It was difficult because of the short notice, but thorough. We have the best team of neurosurgeons in Germany.” His praise was given with no embarrassment or hesitation.

He paused. “The man is terminal and we are not miracle workers.”

Rica sat with closed eyes. Dr. O'Connor put his arm around Juan's shoulder as if to steady him for the doctor's next words.

“The wounds on his body are ugly and severe, but not life-threatening. The foot can possibly be saved. Understandably, there has been a tremendous loss of blood.

“The major problem is a sliver of shrapnel embedded deeply in his brain. It is my belief that an effort to remove it would cause his death. Better to let the shrapnel go with him.”

The other doctors nodded their agreement.

Dr. O'Connor stood. “Dr. Brenner, I would like my patient to have an immediate blood transfusion. I have a donor.” Meeting Dr. Brenner's disbelieving stare, he added, “Immediately.”

“Of course. This must be a very important man. Who is he?”

Juan's voice shook as he replied, “My brother.”

The sound of the plane as it flew high over the turbulent black sea failed to erase Dr. Brenner's words. They had held no meaning for Rica at the time. Words—just words, sounds hanging in the air, the words of a stranger that passed through her mind.

Of course, Steve wouldn't die.

But as the dark hours passed, she sat by the silent, motionless body, unresponsive to her touch, and doubt crept in.

How can I tell the children? How can I face your mother? Oh, Steve, you are the other half of me. How can I live without you? Why would I want to?

“My Steve.” She sobbed with her arms around his blanketed figure. “The price was too high for your dream.”

Her voice brought Juan to her. Tenderly, he loosened her arms and held her as Steve once had.

“W
e've been in the air for ten hours. What's taking so long?” Juan asked impatiently of the pilot as the other man slept.

“Headwind is very strong. Two more hours and we're home. Sorry.”

Juan looked at his watch. Twelve a.m.

The plane's wheels had hardly touched down when a waiting ambulance pulled up. Steve was carefully lifted out, and with lights blazing and sirens blaring, he was taken to the University of California, San Francisco Medical Center.

Ma, Sis, Dr. Teddy and Sara anxiously waited, only to see the gurney with its near-lifeless figure roll quickly past. Following at a slower pace were the exhausted Juan, Rica and Dr. O'Connor.

After a few moments of excited questions, the doctor motioned them to a private room and spoke quickly.

“As long as you are all here, it will be easier if we can discuss Steve's condition now. Time is vital and I know you are anxious to hear. These are the facts. The doctors at Landstuhl are considered by the medical profession to be some of the best. They found a sliver of shrapnel deep in the front of the brain, as well as other wounds. They believe any attempt to remove that steel from his brain will be fatal, and that he is terminal.

“I would like the opportunity to examine him for my own satisfaction. Perhaps my fellow neurosurgeons and I can find something that the Germans have missed. I feel there is a chance and Steve is entitled to it.”

Deep silence hung like a shroud, broken by Rica's muffled sobs, and Ma's broken-hearted, “My son, my son.” Juan stood speechless, his face drained white.

“Your decision must be made quickly,” the doctor continued. “He can't last. Three blood transfusions have helped keep him alive this long. He has never regained consciousness.”

“He is in God's hands and Those hands will guide you,” Ma said. Sis, with her arms around her mother, nodded her agreement.

Rica was sobbing on Sara's shoulder and they spoke as one. “Yes.”

Dr. Teddy said, “You can do it. I have every confidence in you.”

Juan's voice choked, “Don't let him die.”

Wearily, Dr. O'Connor's said, “I have three specialists in this field who will work with me. The operation will be a lengthy one. He must heal slowly, so I will have him in an induced coma for at least a couple of weeks afterwards. I am grateful for your confidence and we will give him his chance. You folks go home and say your prayers and I will say mine. We will operate as soon as it is humanly possible and I will keep you fully informed.”

After a lengthy conference with the operating team, elderly Dr. Bowers said confidentially to Dr. O'Connor: “This patient must be a very close friend of Dr. Hassé and a beloved friend of Mr. Miguel—if you know what I mean.

“I've known Dr. Hassé for years. Her father and my father practiced together before we were born. Goes back aways, doesn't it? She is very highly thought of despite her sexual preference. A queer, you know.”

The younger doctor spoke quietly, as if to himself: “How wonderful to have a beloved friend like that—I would trade places with the patient if I could.”

“Pardon me, Dr. O'Connor, I didn't hear you.”

“Oh, talking to myself. Since I live alone, I tend to do that a lot. I hope people will think as highly of me some day, despite my sexual preference. I believe the honest word is ‘homosexual.' ”

Dr. Bowers flushed. “Sorry, I didn't know. Didn't mean to embarrass you.”

“I am not embarrassed—but it appears that you are. Shall we get back to our patient?”

Teddy and Sara went home. As they undressed for bed, Teddy said, “Better pray for both of us. I haven't been in very close touch with God for a while.”

“I always do,” responded Sara.

At home, Rica lay on her back holding Steve's pillow close to her, gazing at the ceiling. She prayed that once again Steve's head would lie on that pillow and that she would hear his teasing voice, “Later, Mistress, later,” and see his impish grin. Then her eyes closed and she slept.