Before Their Time: A Memoir (17 page)

My questioner grew somber. He stroked his furry Brit-style mustache with his thumb, smoothing it out on either side of his upper lip, taking his time. Certainly it was his prerogative. Together we had all the time in the world. Then, finished with his mustache, he lit a cigarette, without offering me one.

I could tell that the captain was one of those lonely officers who were without a command. I had seen the type
before. No one reported to him; no one ever would. He didn’t give orders; he had no one to give orders to. All he had was a dubious authority, derived from his professional specialty. Somehow I felt that he didn’t have any buddies, either. The spinster type—Mr. Go-It-Alone, intellectually superior. Here at the base hospital, sitting across from me, wetting his thumb to smooth out his mustache again, he looked as though he might be getting ready to cry. I would have liked to see that, the captain crying from a frustration that I had created. His poor history. The poor story he wanted me to tell that would heighten the self-importance of the Yankee Division, the one he knew before he even met me. And then the real one, the one I was trying to tell him, which he had been forced to listen to so many times today. It had to be bitter for him.

“I better clean this mess up,” I said, looking down at my vomit.

“I think that might be wise,” he said, and got up to go.

WE WERE finished for the day. We had had enough of each other. I could feel his relief. Besides, it was time for lunch. At noon, at all mealtimes, I soon discovered, the base came to frantic life, as though each meal might be the last. There was a sense of liberation everywhere, a welcome sociability among the hospital personnel, which I would have liked to share. But I was only an ambulatory patient there. I would soon be on my way to somewhere else. And it was their institution, in which I was just among the first of many interchangeable parts to have arrived. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

Overhead, at the moment, Lonesome Charlie was buzzing us from a rather low altitude. He was always there, every day in good weather, I would learn, observing us from a rickety enemy plane that was trying to keep an eye on what was going on behind the Third Army’s lines. The plane was unarmed, I’m sure, and probably carried only a camera besides Charlie himself. Everybody kidded about Lonesome Charlie and pretended to pay no attention to him, as though they all, doctors and nurses alike, were truly without fear. But everybody, I noticed, always had one eye cocked to the sky when he was overhead. No point, I guess, in being overconfident.

After lunch, it was the psychiatrist’s turn. (They were going to keep me busy, whatever the cost.) The good doctor was another captain without a command. He, too, never gave an order. He was also somber-looking and round-shouldered (perhaps from the weight of the stories that his patients had loaded on him), with thick eyebrows that dominated his face. At the top of his long, thin nose he wore granny specs; and for some reason he made me think of Ira Fedderman. While he was as interested in my narrative as his colleague, he was also just as interested in me. This softened me up, of course. I liked the chance to talk about myself. Answering lots of personal questions about my past life, such as it was, about my personal interests, my failed education, about books I had read, music, playing the piano (but not sex; we never got to that). He was deft at it, too, within his limitations, drawing me out without too much pain so that I talked a lot, probably too much, dramatizing myself, trying to make myself look good—as always.

What was needed first of all, he explained to me, was a diagnosis of my case. Only then could he do his medical duty and decide how to treat me. “You understand that?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

But I began to wonder. For the first time, I was being asked to think of myself as a case, rather than as a patient. It seemed to me that there was a crucial difference there, one that I could not quite define but that brought me up sharply as the doctor continued to explain the process we would share. I listened carefully. The gist of it, he explained, was that together we would descend into the stony trenches of memory, in search of the recalcitrant past—his image—while supporting each other in perfect mutual trust.

I supposed so, even though the image sounded stale to me, as though it had been over-rehearsed.

PSYCH.: Son.

Me: Sir?

Psych.: No need for formalities. It’s doctor-patient here.

Me: Yes, sir.

Psych.: Anyway … Please try to describe your feelings again. Don’t be shy about it. I assure you you have my total confidence. This time just try to be a little more specific, try not to use abstract words, like “fine” and “all right.” You understand that, don’t you? It’ll make things easier. And faster. You’ll see. Does that sound okay with you?

Did he really need my agreement? I doubted it. It was probably just his way of talking, a technique. All doctors have one. It’s like a suit of armor for the medical profession. Technique. I tried to describe my feelings to him,
always looking for a specific word. It was hard. I was not used to describing my feelings, or even thinking about them. As I’ve said, they gave me the hives. I wandered then, lost in the sticky maze of emotions. The good doctor did not seem to be surprised. He cleared his throat as I stumbled along, and slumped forward toward me. His granny specs slipped down his nose. I could feel his sympathy and his hunger for information. So I tried to make him happy by telling him again what had happened. That seemed the most direct way to my emotions, even though the sound of my own voice, its all-too-familiar pitch and timbre, like the whine of an oboe or some other reedy instrument, was beginning to get on my nerves. I began to talk about the squad, that’s what it always seemed to come down to: about Ira Fedderman especially, about Johnson and his arm wound, about Paul Willis and Barney Barnato, about Rocky and Brewster and Natale. Then I talked about Bern. I grew excited. I wept.

Psych. (in an even tone): Rest a minute, son. Don’t push yourself. We’ve probably done enough for one day. (He checked his watch.) You’re doing fine. Just relax. Try to breathe a little less strenuously. Try not to waste your energy.

He put a hand on my shoulder as I continued to weep. With his palm resting there lightly, I could feel him thinking. There were actual vibrations, of the most tremulous delicacy, passing from the flat of his hand onto the skinny knobs of my shoulder. He was shuffling diagnoses, perhaps, as though they were playing-cards. He was considering alternatives while he quivered with thoughtfulness. Had I suffered shell shock? Combat fatigue? Was I malingering? Even through my excitement, I understood that he
was making a judgment, as well as a diagnosis, seeking a name for my case that would explain everything and provide a defining tag for me, one that would shape my future and mark the way I would think about myself for the rest of my life. I understood that clearly and realized its importance. I told myself that I must try to appear less agitated. I must seem to be in control of myself. Not skewed, not crazy. I knew that “crazy” would suit the doctors only too well. I sat up straight, looked attentive. I tried to brighten, to actually cast a glow, while the doctor continued to think about me with a sad expression on his face, his hand in place on my shoulder. I could still feel the vibrations, but fainter now. I had to make him like me. It seemed urgent. In a moment, ever alert, ever cunning, I smiled.

WHAT would his report say? I tried to imagine it:

Psych.: Soldier is nineteen. Five foot eight, 144 pounds. Sandy crew-cut. Blue-eyed. High sensibility. High susceptibility. Suffers chronic eczema, hives, muscle cramps, horniness, and other ailments common to adolescence. Perhaps emotionally immature—somewhat. Sole unwounded survivor of engagement at or near Bézange-la-petite. (I knew the name because the historian had told me, spelling it out carefully. Sometimes it’s called Moncourt Woods.) Normal guilt feelings at survival, combined with powerful frustrated aggression resulting from twelve-hour siege, during which soldier did not fire a single round of ammunition at the enemy. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Well, why not? It was a start, I thought, but only a start, nowhere near enough. What about childish shame at passive behavior? That should be first in any report. Or terror
at the idea of returning to the front? There was that, too—excessively. Or even the heavy grit of bitterness, which was beginning to settle inside me like a layer of soot that would never be removed, never erased, down to the last abrasive black particle? That was there, too, along with everything else just beginning to take hold.

Actually, I wanted to speak to my new friend from the warmth of my heart, from its familiar heat, but I felt as though I was freezing to death.

IN A moment, the doctor began again. I had my breathing under control. I had myself under control. I was still smiling, intermittently—but smiling.

Psych.: Tell me about your family.

Me: What does my family have to do with it?

Psych.: Our families have to do with everything.

Me: Well, they don’t have anything to do with this. (My smile vanished.)

Psych.: I’m not pushing you. Just think about it a little.

Me: I don’t want to talk about my family. They’re three thousand miles away. (The thought of my family, ignorant of my state, three thousand miles away, brought tears to my eyes; my newly found poise was ruined.) I don’t want them to know anything about this, either—I mean that. Nobody’s going to write home to them, are they?

Psych.: Not a word. Not from me. (He held up both hands, palms out.) Heaven forbid. Where are you from, anyway?

Me: Baltimore.

Psych.: I was in Baltimore once.

Me: I don’t want anybody to write to my family.

Psych.: Trust me. You have my word. Now tell me, son (a pause while he searched for what he wanted to say), tell me, you love music, so do I. Let’s talk a bit about music. Who is your favorite composer?

My favorite composer? Now I had to think up answers to silly cultural questions. But maybe it was really what I wanted to talk about. I mean, it seemed innocent. Still, I had to ask myself, was there a correct answer here, for which I would get a perfect mark, an A? And, by extension, enhance my record with the good doctor? If there was, I had to find it. I wanted the doctor’s approval.

Psych.: Anyone in particular? Beethoven, say? He’s always good to start with.

Me: Oh sure. Beethoven.

Psych.: Do you play the sonatas?

Me: One or two of the early ones. Sort of. You know what I mean.

Psych. (nodding): And Bach?

Me: Oh sure, Bach, too. Certainly. Ira Fedderman liked Berlioz. Berlioz was his favorite. He wanted me to like him, too. He used to call him Hectoring Berlioz. He liked him a lot.

Psych.: I can believe that. I like him, too. Hectoring Berlioz, that’s pretty good. I can see the point.

Me: Yes.

Psych.: Well, we all have our favorites. I guess you could do worse.

And I have others, I wanted to say. A dozen more. They change from day to day. My tastes are fickle. It’s one of my worst faults. Just ask my friends.

But the doctor apparently had the answers he was looking for. At least, he didn’t ask anything more about composers.
Did that mean that Beethoven and Bach sufficed? Perhaps they would help to absolve me. A lot was at stake. My life, perhaps. The doctor then made a suggestion, proceeding with care.

Psych.: Son, I don’t want you to misunderstand what I’m going to say now.

Me: No, sir.

Psych.: It’s important for you to know that we have your well-being at heart and that we have ways to help you feel better. Tested ways. Safe. But I don’t want to put you in a position where you’ll be doing anything against your will.

He paused. We looked at each other. It was too abstract for me. He had to be more specific. Watching him, I had the sudden feeling that he was actually very shy, that this interview was painful for him, too. This brought on a rush of sympathy in me. I wanted the doctor to feel comfortable. How could I assure this? I waited for him to go on. I was thinking about what he had said about doing something against my “will.” Nobody in the Army had ever talked about that before.

Psych. (pleasantly): Did you hear what I just said?

I nodded and smiled a ghastly smile.

Psych.: There are new techniques. The latest in medical advances. We have full access, even here at the front.

What front? I didn’t see any front. Everybody at the base hospital, I was discovering, liked to talk like that, as though they were risking their lives every day, as though they were in actual combat. The real front was miles away. Miles. Although you could still hear the big guns and their echoing aftermath from time to time. I remained silent. Orderlies and doctors and a few nurses hovered nearby, talking shop. The women’s voices were among the first I
had heard in many weeks; they were full of wisecracks and promise. But I was getting impatient. I began to squirm. I wanted this confrontation to be over. The doctor and I were sitting in a corner of a tent, facing each other on metal barrels. Our feet dangled uncomfortably in the air. The doctor spoke quietly to enhance the illusion of privacy. It almost worked. He glanced at my thumb every now and then while we sat there. So did I. It was still bandaged and the bandage was filthy. I tried to hide it.

I waited for him to go on.

“For example,” he said, “we have a serum available to us that will relax you, help you to sleep, even help you to talk.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“I recommend it,” he answered. “It’s very effective.”

“Ira Fedderman,” I said, “went to a psychiatrist once in Brooklyn. The principal of his high school made him. He wouldn’t let him back in school unless he went. Ira Fedderman told me about it. He told me that—”

“Ira Fedderman is not the subject here, son,” the doctor said, suddenly frosty. “Let’s try to remember that.”

“Do you think I’m having trouble talking?” I asked, returning to the subject.

He hesitated a moment, considering. He pushed at his specs. I liked his specs; they were flattering. They took attention away from his eyebrows and his long, thin nose. I wanted them for myself. I thought they would look good on me. Better than on him. “Well,” he said, “what I’m talking about operates like a truth serum. You know? You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?” He faked a laugh.