Dog Tags (10 page)

“What about that fire?”

“You're in charge out there. I don't need it, if that's what you're asking.”

“Okay. No fire. Can they come back in?”

My back ached. Occupational hazard. Compensation, partial disability. “How many now?”

“Too many. Forty. Fifty. But maybe in shifts.”

“All right. You do it. Keep them out of my way.”

Wyatt looked like a wispy blond poet and wore a West Point ring.

“Doc. Something wrong? Is he dead?”

“I'm tired. I need a clamp.”

“I don't know what that is.”

It was not Ewald but a stranger. “Where's Ewald?”

“Here, Lieutenant. Coming. Sorry.”

“A clamp. Tag him. Morphine and plasma.”

At dawn I stripped off another pair of gloves and stumbled outside. The courtyard was full. Men slept in pairs like lovers, un-American, treason, hugging and groaning, livid in the pearly light, powdered white by snow. Motors droned and thumped. I counted eight trucks, two jeeps. Snow fell in sparse, minute flakes; to the east the sky was clearer. I breathed. I trudged into the brush and relieved myself, stiff, tired; yes, made Korea my own. My breath steamed and my head was leaden. I buttoned up, found a match, smoked. I walked on back. “How you doing, Swede?”

Ewald nodded. “I slept a little. This is bad, isn't it.”

“Bad as can be. Any word from anybody about anything?”

“Big retreat. Anju and maybe farther. In the east too, right down to the ocean.”

“We're in trouble.”

“They're still coming in,” Ewald said.

“As long as they come, we stay.”

“Okay. I wasn't asking.”

“You sound like you want a transfer.”

“Soon as possible,” Ewald said.

A light booming commenced in the north. “The Chinese,” Ewald said. “Millions of Chinese.”

“Five years ago they were all heroes.” Lin was at Bellevue. Another year and Lin might come down from the north with a red star on his cap.

No. Hazily, puzzled, I received an illumination: such meetings were not life. I would not find Lin in an exotic Oriental compound. I would never see 57359 again. Or … or her. Paths crossed, diverged; the past was always prologue. And the future was never a tidy epilogue; the future was opaque until it became the present, and then it was the past, and more prologue, and possibly I had already made my greatest and most irrevocable decisions and mistakes. But I would never know. I might never see Jacob again, or Carol, or Joseph. “Take some chocolate and coffee to the table, will you? I'll come in.”

“All right. You need sleep.”

“Soon. No word about another doctor?”

“No word.”

I would never talk to Blue two again. Or to Wyatt, or the Negro sergeant, or after a while to Ewald. I was a dead fish floating on life's tide, a tide neither friendly nor hostile but inexorable. I was a chip, a bubble, a nothing; only a function. Here or there, then or now, I was a doctor. That was something. I saw myself driven by a silent destiny to a tent in Central Asia, an igloo in the Arctic, a hut in Samoa, each day new faces, new wounds, new ills, and Benny nameless, homeless, friendless, repairing men, women, children, whose language he could not speak.

The sweet German dance I love came to me, and I shouted aloud in pain.

Business slacked off in midmorning. By then I was accustomed once more to the noise of war, and could distinguish a variety of instruments: mortars, machine guns, distant single rounds like firecrackers; perhaps a carbine. In a corner of my clinic stood several rifles. 'Tis expressly against the law of arms. Bits and pieces of equipment—and, I supposed, of men—littered the room: cartridge belts, a mess kit, packs, ration boxes. Outside were many corpses; within, a skinny sergeant with a broken arm and probably a bad concussion; he was conscious and smoking but with the empty, incandescent eyes of a parrot. On the table was a young man who had lost a one-inch ribbon of his left side from armpit to hip; bits of rib flashed white as I swabbed and trimmed. “Ewald, my boy, we may have missed the last bus. How long since a vehicle went past?”

“Half an hour anyway.”

“And no foot soldiers either.”

“I hear some now,” Ewald said.

“Raise him up a little,” I said. “I hear them too. It's been lovely, Ewald.”

“God damn it,” he said. “You were supposed to get me out of this.”

“I was supposed to treat the wounded,” I said. “So were you. Let him down now, easy.” I was as good as drunk (no, not quite as good; I would have given a deal to be rowdy drunk), wallowing in bloody bits, waving red hands, exhausted, blinking gritty eyes, hungry.

It was not over. All day long they trickled in.

Dark again, and brutish silence, like a cheap saloon at dawn; along one wall, six patients in a row, one whimpering, others asleep, unconscious, one smoking in the half-light. In the courtyard another vehicle, slamming to a stop; boots on stone, the door flung open: “Bring him in! Bring him in!”

“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—grimaced—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.