my cardio, Ok?”
Your electro-cardiograph was terrific, Colonel. Had I not known it was yours, I would have sworn ... it was the heart of a twenty something.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Colonel, too much mannitol hexanitrate produced a certain amount of nausea and I’m sure you are anxious to get home, take a seconal and lie down for a nap.”
“I ought to write the manual for minor tactics for the heavy pressure platoon.” I said.
“Why not.”
“Well doc, I’ve told you, why can’t I just throw myself on the mercy of the court?”
“You never do, Colonel…you always plead them not guilty.”
I laughed at the suggestion but I could see my old pal wasn’t going to let me off the hook.
“How many times have you been hit in the head?” He asked.
“You know damn well doc, it’s in my 201 but when you’re the quarterback the line hits you.”
“How many times, Colonel?”
“Oh for Christ sake, are you asking for the army, or as my friend and personal surgeon?”
“You know Brandon, I stood up for you and Bonnie and I’d never lie to you…this comes from the heart as your friend and physician.”
“Ok Doc, you have made me feel sufficiently trite, now what exactly do you want to know?”
“Concussions!”
“Real ones?”
“Anytime you were out cold or couldn’t remember.”
“Maybe ten or fifteen times.” I responded, “Counting Polo, give or take three shots to the head.”
“You poor bastard.” The surgeon said, “You’re in good health, but the heads going to kill you.”
“May I leave now?”
“Yes, sir,” The surgeon responded.
“Want to go on a duck hunt in the marshes near Vancouver? It will be terrific.”
“Isn’t that were they shoot old coots?”
“No, they shoot real ducks; mallards, pin-tails, widgeon, some geese…just like the shoots we went on when we were kids.”
“I was a kid in ’29 or ‘30”
“That was the first mean thing I ever heard you say.”
“I didn’t mean it like it sounded. I just meant ... I didn’t remember when shooting ducks was good; you must remember I’m a city boy.”
“Colonel, sir, I can hurt you, and I know you don’t mean that?”
“Of course not, just kidding.” I said laughing at my old friend.
“Happy to say you’re in good shape, and I would expect you will get the star, but just remember Brandon, if you ever get a severe headache, don’t fool with it and try to self-medicate…sorry I can’t go on the shoot…but then I can’t even shoot!” (Laughing)
“Hell.” I said, “... doesn’t matter. Neither can anybody else in this man’s army…I just enjoy having you around, taking your money at poker!”
“I’m going to give you something else to back-up the medication you are now taking.”
“Is there anything?”
“Not really. They’re working on stuff at Lilly.”
“Let’em work.”
“That is a laudable attitude, sir.”
“Go to hell.” I said. “You sure you don’t want to go on the shoot…just for the R and R?”
“I get my ducks at Kroger.” The doctor said. “And, it’s warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and I don’t have to get up before first light…or wear long handled drawers.”
“All right city boy, you’ll never know what you missed.”
“And, I don’t want to know,” the Doctor said. “I am glad you are in the kind of shape ... enables you to do such manly things, Colonel, sir.”
“I could learn to dislike you.” We shook hands and Doc patted my back as I went out the door.
************
They had known each other since boyhood, and I thought of how much water had passed under the bridges for me, and as I drove home, I thought of the drive down from Trieste to Venice, along the old road from Monfalcone to Latis and then on across the flat country. I hired a good driver and was able to relax in the front seat while watching the country roll by…the land I had known as a boy.
It looks quite different now, I thought. Maybe it’s because the distances have changed due to the construction of better roads and no more gravel rattling against the frame of the car. Everything is so much smaller when you’re older. I remember, the only times I used to ride through it was while in Camion, and the rest of the time we walked. I suppose what I looked for then was patches of shade whenever we fell out and the taste of sweet cool water from fresh wells on the farms, and ditches too…I remember looking for the ditches.
The driver made a curve and crossed the Tagliamento River on a temporary bridge. It was green along the banks of the river and men were fishing along the shoreline, were the river ran deep and cool with rocks for the big fish to hide. The brown bridge was being repaired and we could hear the sound of ratchets and hammers. However, less than a thousand yards away, the towns bombed out buildings and outbuildings of what remained of a once lovely country village stood as a reminder of the legacy of war. Replaced now by the sounds of a new economy, driven by war, were once the country-folk struggled but now they simply watch and remember the insanity of it all.
“Look at it.” The young driver exclaimed. “In this country you can find a bridge on a rail-spur.”
“I guess the lesson is,” I said, “Don’t ever build yourself a country house or hire Giotto to paint any frescoes, if you live a hundred yards from the bridge.”
“I knew there must be a lesson in it, sir.”
We had passed the ruined villa now, and into the straightaway were the willows grew by the ditches, still dark with water from the winter rain and snow and the fields, painting a beautiful landscape of Mulberry trees sure to be cut down. Just ahead a man was peddling a bike and using both hands to read the morning news.
“If there are heavies, the lesson ought to say a mile.” The driver remarked. “Would ... be about right sir?”
“If it’s a guided missile,” I said. “Better make it two hundred miles and you’d better give the cyclist
