Continuing the adventures of PFC Chas (and you thought you had seen the last of these thrilling adventures, dear reader – silly you!)
The Third Armored Medical Company, a.k.a. the “Third Herd,” was well-equipped to administer first-aid in a combat zone. The Third Herd was not well-equipped, however, to administer first-aid in a peace-time zone. In this regard, we were as helpless as babies. Luckily for us, we had an infirmary which administered first-aid in a peace-time zone. This facility was called an “infirmary” because its staff was infirm, having had the same medical training as the rest of us had had.
PFC (Private First Class) Chas had two close encounters with an infirmary, one of which made him the man he is today – crippled for life. I’ll start with the close encounter which did not render him crippled for life. I have mentioned previously, life in a MASH in peace-time consisted of busy-work, mostly KP and guard duty. On one such occasion when I pulled KP (kitchen police), I found myself in the back of the mess hall washing pots and pans which I had to wash as soon as they were emptied so they could be used again (and there were a lot of them, I can tell you, keeping me busy well into the night).
Did I mention that the military’s approach to cuisine was chiefly greasy fried foods? No? Well, it was – and still is, as far as I know. Therefore, I had to wash tons of pots and pans with extremely hot water in order to cut through the thick layers of grease.
As I toiled, I noticed bits of skin floating on top of the wash water. Upon examination, I realized that those bits of skin were mine. Upon further examination, I realized that the bones of my hands were becoming visible. I reported these realizations to the mess sergeant who shook his head at my apparent carelessness in performing my duties. Nevertheless, he sent me to the infirmary where, he claimed, I could get some first-aid after which I was to report back for duty. I rushed off to the infirmary. Along the way, I noted that a number of soldiers were fainting dead away when they saw my hands.
The infirmist (is there such a word?) was a kindly old sawbones, uh, doctor who took pity on me by lecturing me on military protocol. Luckily for me, he had some skin in stock, and I had my choice of ethnicity. I chose Albino because it closely resembled my own skin. The saw – uh, doctor also gave me a relieve-of-duty slip to give to the mess sergeant in order to allow time for the new skin to adhere to my bones. The mess sergeant was not amused. Thereafter, whenever he saw me, he shook his fist at me and yelled out “Slacker!”
The second close encounter was more serious. Just as I have mentioned before, when the Third Herd was in the field, my platoon was responsible for unit security because there were no litters for us to carry. It being a December in the Bavarian woods, it was mighty cold. Therefore, we were issued heavy, insulated boots to keep our feet warm. We called them “Mickey Mouse” boots, because they resembled the feet of that popular cartoon rodent. I slipped my boots on when the time came to protect the unit from invasion by communist hordes and hurried off to the designated post. (Side note: this incident occurred the night after the previously reported Booby Trap Incident. There was no cause-and-effect situation here. I just like to be thorough in my reporting.)
As I stood at my post, being bored out of my mind, my left foot began to cause me pain. Upon being relieved by another fellow in my platoon, I rushed off to the first-aid tent (which is an infirmary in the field) for a check-up. The saw – uh, doctor was a gruff, middle-aged major who had a bed-side manner you wouldn’t want to write home about. He yanked off my left boot and sock, revealing a foot as blue as the sky the size of a football. His prognosis was second-degree cold injury, and I had my choice of amputation or a life addicted to pain-killers. Some choice, eh? I leave to your imagination, dear reader, which choice I made. Here’s a hint: if you see The Chas walking down the street in an odd fashion, you’ll know which choice I made. (P.S. I get a Christmas card every year from that saw – uh, doctor thanking me for being such a good test subject.
I did have a third close encounter with an infirmary, but I was not on the receiving end that time. It occurred during my reserve-duty obligation and will be the subject of a future essay.
To be continued (heh-heh-heh!).