War Year by Joe Haldeman Page B

time—they had a tomato sauce ad on the front and a recipe inside. I lit up, about the best cigarette I’d ever had.
    She had gone back to her desk. “Say, is it all right if I undo these straps?”
    â€œSure. Just don’t try to run around the block.” She smiled. Jesus Christ.
    I unbuckled the straps and looked under the sheet. All I was wearing was one big roll of bandage from ankle to crotch. There was a dark brown bloodstain on my thigh, over the largest wound. The whole thing ached, but I can’t say that it bothered me too much.
    â€œGI… ay, GI.”
    There was a Vietnamese strapped in the bed next to me. I didn’t recognize him at first, because he was wearing blue pajamas. Then I saw the cast on his arm and knew he must be the NVA who was carrying on so much earlier. He made smoking motions, quick little jerks with an imaginary cigarette.
    I lit one up and passed it to him—not the easiest trick in the world, with both of us all tangled up in tubes and bottles.
    â€œ Cam on ong ,” he said. “ Toi la ban .”
    I didn’t catch most of that, but “come on” means thanks. Didn’t know how to say “you’re welcome” or anything, so I just nodded and leaned back in bed and smoked, watching the chick shuffle papers around her desk.
    Whatever kept the leg from hurting wore off real fast. “Ma’am?”
    â€œWhat would you like?” She smiled again. God damn.
    â€œCan you give me something for the pain?”
    She looked at her watch, and at a clipboard on the wall. “Not for another half-hour, I’m afraid. You could have a couple of Darvon, but I don’t think they’d help much.”
    â€œAnything’s better than nothing.” Actually, I just wanted to see her walk again.
    I took the Darvon and chain-smoked for a half-hour. Then she came over again and gave me a shot. It stopped hurting before she even had the needle out, and I was asleep in a minute or two.
    I dreamed that the NVA next to me was chasing me down a jungle trail, throwing lit cigarettes at me. My pack was full of blasting caps.
    Somebody shook me awake; it turned out to be the medic who had shaved my leg earlier. “Wanna sleep yer life away, Farmer? It’s breakfast time.”
    â€œOh, man, go away.” The leg was throbbing.
    â€œHere, lemme crank you up.” He turned a crank at the foot of the bed and the top half rose to put me halfway into a sitting position. “You’ll feel better once y’get some chow inside.”
    The bed next to me was empty. “Where’d my buddy go?”
    â€œHim? Oh, they took ’im to the POW ward last night. Here comes the chuck wagon.”
    A big Negro with a white uniform pushed a stainless-steel food cart down the aisle. “How ’bout some bacon an’ eggs?”
    â€œI have a choice?”
    â€œSure—you can have bacon an’ eggs or a bottle o’ sugar water, through another tube stuck in yer arm.”
    â€œLet me have the bacon without the eggs, then.”
    â€œCome on, man, just give ’em a try. You don’t have to eat ’em.” He fitted a tray to the bed, loaded up a plate, and set it down in front of me, with a glass of orange juice and a glass of milk. “Want coffee?”
    â€œUgh.”
    â€œSuit y’self.” He rolled the cart away, clattering like a junkyard on wheels.
    Army scrambled eggs are enough to make a well man puke. I scraped them to the side of the plate and ate the bacon. The orange juice tasted like sour water, but the milk was good and cold. The medic saw I was finished and took away my tray.
    I lit up a cigarette. “Got anything to read around here?” If the nurse had still been around, I would’ve been happy to just sit and look at her—but the medic was no prize.
    â€œCoupla papers.” He brought over a Stars and Stripes and an Army Times. I read every word in