Free The Million-Dollar Wound by Max Allan Collins Page B

home.
    More clearly, I remember: Barney, flat on his belly in the hole, starting to pitch grenades.
    That was safe—it wouldn’t give our position away; the enemy couldn’t tell where the grenades were coming from, in this darkness. He must’ve thrown a couple dozen.
    The sun was rising; I was burning up. They’d be coming any minute, climbing over the log, flowing over the edge of the hole, banzai, bayonets flashing, Barney saying the Shema Yisrael over and over, holding on to one last grenade to take the Japs with us when they came streaming over in and on us.
    A mortar shell hit, nearby, rocking the earth.
    “It’s from behind us!” Barney shouted.
    Our side firing… our side firing…another shell landed in front of us, in a crashing rumble, throwing up a huge cloud of smoke.
    Hooray for our side.
    “Nate, I’m going for help—the Japs won’t be able to see me in all this smoke. Okay, Nate?”
    I nodded. Nodded off. Slipping into a fever dream where things I never wanted to remember would teach me to forget them.

 

 
    “Nathan Heller,” I said.
    The captain smiled. He was a Navy man, the only uniformed doctor of the four on the panel. He seemed to be in his early forties—a doctor on his either side outranked him in age—and he was the only one who wasn’t a little on the heavy side. One of the well-fed civilian doctors was Wilcox, my doc, sitting at the far end. But the captain was in charge. It took a Navy man to give you your walking papers, your Section 8.
    “You know your name,” the captain said, pleasantly. “That’s a good start.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Dr. Wilcox feels you’ve done very well here. It’s seldom a patient makes it down to the first floor so quickly.”
    “Sir, if I might ask a question?”
    “Yes, Private Heller.”
    “It was my understanding that the program here is a three-month one, minimum. I’ve been here a little over two months. Now, I’m not complaining, mind you—I’m glad to be getting this consideration, but…”
    The captain nodded, smiling again. “Your curiosity about this early Board of Review is a sign of your improved condition. I understand you were a detective before you enlisted.”
    “Yes, sir. I’m president of a little agency. It’s waiting for me back in Chicago, when the Marines get through with me.”
    “You understand, Private, that returning to combat, to any sort of active duty, is out of the question.”
    It was the ultimate Hollywood wound, the jackpot million-dollar wound: if you cracked up in combat, there was no going back to it. Heller goes marching home.
    “I’ve heard the scuttlebutt, yes sir.”
    “You’ll be honorably discharged, when you’re released from St. E’s. You should feel no stigma about that.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You’ve served your country honorably. I understand you’ve been awarded a Silver Star.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You’ve acquitted yourself admirably, to say the least. Bravery under fire is no small distinction. But you’re wondering why I haven’t answered your question, about this early hearing.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He gestured toward the wall behind me, which was lined with chairs. “Pull up a chair,” he said. “Have a seat.”
    I did.
    “There is a precedent for your early release, should we decide to do so, in response to the special circumstances that have come up. For example, many Army hospitals run an eight-week mental rehab program. So, Private Heller, you mustn’t feel shortchanged by getting a ‘rush job’ at St. E’s.”
    “Oh, I don’t feel shortchanged, sir…”
    He stopped me with an upraised hand. “Please relax. Consider the smoking lamp lit.” He was getting out his own cigarettes, Chesterfields, and the other doctors joined in. He offered me one.
    “No thank you, sir. I lost my taste for it.”
    His own cigarette in hand, the captain looked at me suspiciously. “That’s unusual, under these conditions. There isn’t much to do at St. E’s but sit and