Part 60 (1/2)
McCoy went back in the s.h.i.+rt pocket, came out with a small vial of pills, and handed it to Captain Schermer.
”How many of these have you taken? And when?”
”None, sir.”
”You're a real tough Marine, are you? Or maybe a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t? That has to hurt like h.e.l.l every time you move.”
McCoy didn't reply.
Dr. Schermer walked to a sink and came back with a paper water cup.
”Take two of these now,” he said, and turned to the nurse. ”See that he gets one every four hours. Make sure his chart says 'do not wake to administer.' And start penicillin again in the morning.”
”Yes, sir,” the nurse said.
Schermer turned to Pickering.
”Well, General, the major gets at least ninety-six hours in bed,” he said. ”At least forty-eight of which he should spend offering prayers of grat.i.tude that whatever hit him didn't go an inch deeper. Or four inches higher.” He looked at McCoy. ”I said take two of those, Major.”
”Sir, could I hold off until I can call my wife? She's in Tokyo. I don't want to sound like a zombie.”
”Which brings us to Mrs. McCoy,” Dr. Schermer said. ”Had you planned to tell your wife about your leg, Major?”
”Nothing to tell,” McCoy said.
”I think she'll be just a little curious when she sees that bandaged leg,” Dr. Schermer said.
”She's not going to see it, sir.”
”Ernie's here, Ken,” Pickering said.
”She's here?”
”She came to see Pick,” Pickering said.
Schermer added, ”And a combination of the train ride down here, seeing Major Pickering, and learning of Miss Priestly's death almost-I say almost-caused her to lose the baby.”
”Oh, s.h.i.+t!”
”At the moment, her condition ranges from stable to improving slightly,” Dr. Schermer said.
”I want to see her,” McCoy said.
”I am wondering what her reaction will be to learning she almost lost her husband,” Dr. Schermer said.
”She's a pretty tough girl,” Pickering said.
”I noticed,” Schermer said.
”Ken,” Pickering said, ”Pick took Jeanette's death pretty badly.”
”I suppose,” McCoy said.
”Dr. Schermer thought, and I agree, that in addition to her own worries, Ernie didn't need to be any more upset by him. So he's on his way to the States.”
”He was that bad?” McCoy asked.
”He needs a lot of rest, Major. Physically and emotionally. He wasn't going to get much emotional rest here- sending him to the States, we hope, will sort of close a door on what happened to him here-and the hospital at San Diego has the facilities to take better care of him than we can here.”
”I guess that answers my question, doesn't it?”
”What he did, Ken,” Pickering said, ”when he finally broke down, was start to cry. And he couldn't stop. And since he didn't want Ernie, or George, or Zimmerman, or me, to see him crying, that made it worse.”
”A vicious emotional circle, Major,” Captain Schermer said. ”We got it under control here, temporarily, with medicine, but what Major Pickering needs is a lot of time with a good psychiatrist, and they've got better ones in San Diego.”
”And we haven't told Ernie about this yet, either,” Pickering said.
”Jesus H. Christ!”
”Your call, Major,” Dr. Schermer said. ”How do we deal with your wife? If you think a telephone call would be better, if you think learning that you've been wounded would upset her even more . . .”
”I'm not going to be wheeled into her room on a gurney, ” McCoy said.
”Can you walk?”
”And I want to go in alone,” McCoy said. ”And not in Al Haig's Army pants and s.h.i.+rt.”
”Is that where that came from?” Pickering asked, chuckling. ”Doctor, Captain Haig is General Almond's aide-de-camp.”
”There's an officers' sales store in the hospital,” Dr. Schermer said. ”If you will agree to be rolled there in a wheelchair-and from there to your wife's room?”
”Deal,” McCoy said. ”That is, if General Pickering will loan me enough money to buy a uniform.”
”I think that can be worked out,” Pickering said.
[FOUR].
Major Kenneth R. McCoy sat with a white hospital blanket over his knees in a wheelchair in a small dressing cubicle in the officers' sales store. He was waiting for his new uniform trousers to be taken in an inch at the waist, and for them to be provided with precisely the correct crotch-to-cuff length. While he was waiting, he was giving serious, just about completely futile, thought about what bright and witty comment, or comments, he would make to his wife when he walked into her room.
He had just about decided that he was not going to be able to come up with something useful when his reverie was interrupted by Captain George F. Hart coming into the cubicle with a dozen roses.
”Where the h.e.l.l did you get those?” McCoy asked.
”It wasn't easy,” Hart said. ”A lesser dog robber than myself probably would have had to settle for one of those miniature trees-”
”Bonsai,” McCoy furnished.
”-of which the j.a.panese seem so fond.”
”Thanks, George.”