14. Back to the Hospital

After about forty days of my leave had passed, I was ready to wire the War Department and request that they cancel the rest of my leave and order me back to the hospital. Forty days of cooking, washing diapers, feeding babies, keeping house, and doing the family shopping had just about done me in. I was needing some rest, so I began looking forward to my return to the hospital as though it were going to be a vacation. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not insinuating that my stay at home was not pleasant. It was. I love my wife and babies. I just needed a little rest, that was all. And I knew that after I had been at the hospital for a few weeks, I would be more than ready to return to the battle on the home front.

Even though I did contemplate sending that wire to the War Department, I refrained from taking such a drastic step. I feared that if I should make such a request, they would meet me with an ambulance and a strait jacket when I arrived at the hospital. So I patiently sweated out the last few days of my leave.

As I said before, this time I was to report to Oliver Gene ral Hospital in Augusta, Georgia. I presumed that my records would have been sent from the hospital in Jackson, Mississippi, in the meantime, so that the medics at Oliver General would be ready to go to work on my case just as soon as I arrived. It had been forty-five days since I had been a patient in Jackson, and I thought that was ample time for even the Army to get records transferred. But when I arrived at Oliver General on the fifth of January, 1946, I discovered that not a page of my records had been forwarded to that institution. I knew what that would mean. Sure enough, after I had been there for five days, doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and going to the movies and the Red Cross Room, a doctor happened to wander into my room. I was sure this was an accident. If that doctor had known there was a patient in the room, he would never have come in. That was almost a violation of military law. Since he was trapped, and seeing nothing better to do, he pulled out his notebook and pencil and asked me to give him my case history. This was my eighth recital, so I went through it without a hitch—no need for coaching from the side lines.

The young doctor was somewhat pleased with himself for his accomplishment of acquiring my case history. So when he had finished, he rushed down to his office and turned in his notes to his secretary, with instructions for her to type the records and seven carbon copies; then, being satisfied that he had materially contributed to the winning of the war, he rushed out to play a game of golf. Thus, another batch of records was added to my growing collection.

Oliver General Hospital was located in a luxurious hotel on the outskirts of Augusta, Georgia. The main attractions of this hotel were an eighteen-hole golf course and a swimming pool. In the years before this establishment had fallen prisoner to the Army and been ruthlessly converted into a hospital (a good-sized chunk of tax revenue going to the owners), it had been the meeting place of some of the nations leading golf experts. Men of such prominence as Bobby Jones had often been seen beating golf balls around the woods. And I understand that they had gladly forked over as much as thirty dollars a day for their board.

I never had played a game of golf in my life when I came to this luxury resort called a hospital. When I learned that patients in the hospital were not only allowed, but were actually encouraged, to play on this famous course, I resolved to learn the game before I left the hospital. The special-service officer of the hospital was anxious for as many of us as could do so to get out on the course and knock the little pill through the woods. I understood later that his eagerness to have us amateurs play golf was not prompted altogether by his desire to see us have fun in the sun. The undergrowth in the rough had gotten out of control and had made the rough a little too rough. As a matter of fact, unless one had a guide he could easily get lost in the woods and thickets flanking the golf course. The special-service officer knew that if he could get a number of men with golfing ability equal to mine to play for a few days, they would soon cut down and knock down the excessive undergrowth.

The keepers of the course furnished the patient-players with old beat-up and bent-up clubs, sold us dead and cut-up balls for twenty-five cents each, and turned us loose on the course. The place where we all started—“teed off’ is the correct term, I believe—looked like a shell-pocked battlefield. At one time it had been nice and level and covered with grass, but now all the grass was scattered to the four winds. There were places where several of us had started from the same spot. At these places deep holes had been dug in the ground, so that one almost needed steps to get down to a place where he could hit the ball. That was an ominous start. I started the game in one of these obstacles called a “trap,” and continued that way for the remainder of the game.

The first day I went out to play, I was issued half a dozen cracked, chipped, bent, and broken clubs, and three balls that looked as if a freight train had run over them. I walked over to the place to start, stuck my tee in the ground, and balanced a ball on top of it. I knew enough to pick the right club to hit it with, and I knew that the general idea was to slap the ball as far down the fairway as possible. A little flag on a hill about four hundred yards away was my objective. I nonchalantly drew my driver back and made a few false swings at the ball, just the way I had seen experts do it in the movies. I suppose that was to frighten the ball, or maybe it was a stall for time to get your nerves ready. Anyway, after a couple of these swings I stepped up to the ball, drew back my club, and walloped the ball for all I was worth. When the half ton of dirt, twigs, assorted weeds, and grass roots settled down I found the ball still sitting on the tee—I’d never touched it. Oh well, I said, that was just clearing the ground around the ball. Now to hit it. I let fly again. This time I heard the driver connect with the ball, and knew I had hit the ball. When the debris settled I saw the ball still rolling—exactly fifteen yards from the tee.

Well, I was started, anyway. And I was still on the fairway. That was something to be proud of. And I hadn’t lost a ball yet. I was pretty proud of myself—only two strokes against me and only three hundred and eighty-five yards to go to the first hole. At that rate I thought I would be able to sink the ball in the hole with a minimum of fifty strokes; that is, if I could hold the fast pace which I had set. Not bad for a beginner.

The further I went down fairway number one, the better I became as a golfer. I improved so rapidly that I was able to sink the ball in the first cup with the amazingly low score of twenty-one. I was fairly walking on air with pride when I set my ball up on the number two tee. But bad luck dogged my trail. When I hit the ball on the tee-off, I just clipped the top of it with the driver. The ball went rolling and bouncing off to one side of the fairway, coming to a stop about fifty yards from where I had hit it. When I got to the ball, I discovered there was a very large and tall pine tree directly between me and where I wanted to go with the ball. I knew that I would never be able to knock the ball around the tree. It was quite evident that I couldn’t knock the ball through the tree. What to do? After all, I reasoned to myself, I’m just a beginner. Surely, the rules of the game allow some leniency to novices. If they don’t, they ought to … So I took matters in my own hands and made up my own rule, to wit: If your golf ball gets behind a pine tree something has to move; obviously, it won’t be the tree. I leave the rest up to you. But since I was moving the ball, I decided that I might as well move it to a good position. I moved out to the middle of the fairway. From this vantage point there was nothing in my way. I placed the ball, took my rusty driver, and walloped it again. This time I really connected. The ball took off as if it were on a nonstop flight to the moon. The only trouble was that when it got about a hundred feet high, it curved sharply off to the left and went for that pine the way a pin travels to a magnet. It smacked into solid wood high in the pine and bounced out, going clear across the fairway into the woods on the other side. I heard it hit in the leaves and trash, but I never saw that ball again.

Now, you see, that is why they have rules for the game of golf. It will get you nothing but trouble if you try to break the rules. That little golf ball of mine had been knocked around various courses for the past ten years and it had gotten to know all the rules of the game. It had known that I shouldn’t have moved it from behind that pine tree. By all the rights and privileges that accrue to a golf ball, it had had a right to smack into that pine tree. The mere fact that I had moved the ball wasn’t going to change that right. The first chance it had gotten, it had gone right where it had been supposed to go all along: into the pine. And that had been the end of that ball. Rather than play along with me in my game of cheating, that little golf ball had committed suicide. It was a sobering lesson for me.

There was nothing left for me to do but take out the second of my three balls and try again. The one I had just lost was the best one I had had. The second one was in pretty bad shape. It had been retired from active duty for twenty years or more, but the emergency created by a lot of patients’ wanting to play golf had called it back into service. It looked rather decrepit, as though it couldn’t stand much banging around. I set it down and kicked it lightly just to see what it could stand. It rolled away briskly for about ten yards. I decided it would be O.K. So the next time I hit it, I put all I had into the swing of the club. Away the ball went in beautiful style. But when it got about fifty yards away from me, a strange thing happened. Instead of one ball, I saw two balls rolling along, one of them staggering off at a crazy tangent, and the other one going straight ahead. When I got to where the first ball lay, I discovered that it was nothing more than the outside shell of the golf ball. I had literally knocked the hide off that ball.

Only one ball left out of three and I hadn’t made the second hole! I was getting a little discouraged by this time and decided I would wait for another day to finish the game of golf. I would be in the hospital for a long time. There was no need to rush matters. One hole a day would be fast enough for me. So I went back to the hospital. I would wait for another day to finish that game of golf. I’m still waiting.

When trouble or hard times were being passed out in the Army, I was always Johnny-on-the-spot, holding out my hat with both hands so I would get a double helping. But when they started to pass out the good things and the lucky breaks, somehow I managed to be in other parts. If I did happen to get in on one of the good things, a law or something was passed that took it all back before I had a chance to enjoy it much.

For instance, the day after I arrived at Oliver General Hospital I heard that the Augusta Arsenal, located just a few miles from the hospital, was selling brand-new shotguns to officers stationed thereabouts. Guns of the very best makes and models, which would have cost no less than seventy-five dollars in a civilian store, were selling at the arsenal for twenty-eight dollars and a few cents. Being the avid bird hunter that I am, I wanted one of those guns so badly that I would have traded my wife for one if I had found anybody willing to make the trade. When I looked into the sale of these shotguns I learned that they were sold only on Tuesdays. I planned to go over the next Tuesday and buy one. But it so happened that the medics were doing a little planning for me too. And they arranged things so that I would be busy with examinations and tests all day that Tuesday. I would have to wait until the Tuesday after that to get my shotgun.

But what should happen? Some wise guy of a columnist in Washington had to go and louse up the whole deal. Somebody wrote him that a bunch of generals and admirals and whatnot from down Pensacola way had been flying up to Augusta in government planes, on government time, buying these government shotguns with government money, and then selling them for good old civilian “moolah.” To this columnist, that was too much government and too little civilian business, so he flung off a tirade about it in his column. When that hit the press, the War Department hit the ceiling because somebody (probably a snoopy corporal) had let the cat out of the bag. The Augusta Arsenal was ordered to stop selling shotguns as of two months previously. And some general is probably shooting my gun right now.

While I was in the dumps over this, cheering news came. The Post Exchange put up a large sign saying that they would soon offer for sale a large quantity of shotgun shells. If I couldn’t get a gun, at least I could get the shells, I thought; maybe I could borrow a gun. Now, I want to impress upon you the fact that the Post Exchange advertised the sale of these shells for several days, making it quite clear to any person of average intelligence that they intended passing out shotgun shells to customers.

When the day for the sale came I was on hand, with every other patient in the hospital, to get my shells. Each customer was allowed seven boxes of shells. I carried mine back to my room and put them in my suitcase. Then the fun started.

The local constabulary, known as the Military Police, galvanized every available man into action. Apparently they had ignored the Post Exchange’s advertisement of the sale of shotgun shells. Or maybe they thought it was all a joke. Or maybe they just didn’t think. Anyway, they suddenly conceived the bright idea that the patients shouldn’t have the shells. Orders were sent to all parts of the hospital that all patients must return to their rooms immediately and remain there until they were told they could leave. The whole hospital was placed under military law. M.P.’s were seen everywhere, patrolling the streets, the corridors, the wards. We patients thought some top- ranking international spy was loose on the grounds—either that or that the commanding officer of the hospital had lost his golf ball and all the patients had to help look for it. We hastened to our rooms, where we sat tense and fearful, each of us privately wondering if his roommate could be Hitler in disguise. The suspense was awful.

At last there came a sharp, authoritative rap at our door and a Military Police officer, followed by two enlisted men, came into our room. This is it, I thought.

The officer looked me over carefully and then asked in one of those third-degree voices, “Did you buy any shotgun shells today?”

I gulped, “Yes, sir.”

“Where are they? Where have you got them hidden? Where is your shotgun? What are you planning to do, kill all the patients in the hospital?”

I pointed to the closet where my suitcase was. “In there. I don’t have a gun. No, sir.”

“‘No sir’? ‘No, sir’ what?”

“No, sir, I wasn’t going to kill anybody.”

“Well,” the officer replied as if he still didn’t trust me, “we will take the shells. Henceforth, don’t buy any.”

And there went my shells. As far as hunting was concerned I was right back where I had started—no gun, no shells.