John had thought that he was long over the hurt of his first love. How long ago … He had been an inexperienced youth, completely overwhelmed by the stimulation of romance. In love with love, he had told himself many times … . An impossible, impractical love that never could have been.
Over the years, he had managed to convince himself. The natural reluctance to relive the hurt and the shame that had been heaped upon him had assisted in his self-recrimination, and he had managed to see his lost love in a negative light. Well, almost …
Now, fanned by the breeze of happy memories of youth and joy and excitement, the smoldering embers began to glow again. He began to remember pleasant memories that had lain fallow for half his lifetime. The sparkle in sky blue eyes, the electric glow of sunlight on the gold of young Jane Langtry’s hair …
For years, he had managed to make himself more comfortable by convincing himself that he had merely been the object of a girlish fling. He could hate her for her abandonment more easily if he could believe that. For years, this pretense had worked moderately well. He could call up enough resentment to offset the pain of having been mistreated and rejected.
After talking again with Jane’s brother, who still seemed sincere and friendly, all his pain had come rushing back. With it was guilt … . How could he have misjudged and blamed her for her inability to contact him? Or was this only wishful thinking? Had it been impossible for her to contact him? He
changed his theory a dozen times and, as many times, felt even more confused than before.
He encountered Captain Langtry infrequently, and they exchanged the customary salutes of mutual respect. It was not really acceptable to establish any closer contact.
Several days later, he happened to encounter Captain McCoy, on the company street near the Post Exchange.
John saluted, the captain returned the gesture, and paused. There was a puzzled look on his face.
“I know you … . Buffalo?”
“Yes, sir. John Buffalo.”
“Of course. Wyoming. The gold mine.”
There was a half-amused smile on the captain’s face.
“The Rough Riders!” McCoy went on. “Too bad that didn’t work out. What are you doing here?”
“Had a need to do something,” said John. “I signed up.”
The captain nodded. “Of course! Cavalry, I suppose. George said you’re a good cowboy. Oh, yes, I remember, now. You worked for the Hundred and One.”
“Yes, sir. I did. I guess they’ve closed the show on account of the war.”
“I’d heard that. Well, for now, we’ll go fight the Kaiser, right? Good to see you again, Buffalo. Couple of stripes already, I see. Keep it up!”
“Yes, sir.”
John came to attention and saluted smartly. Again, McCoy returned the salute, but then relaxed and extended a hand.
“How about a cowboy handshake on it?” he grinned.
John felt that here was a man he’d like to follow. But likely, he’d never see him again.
He was tired. Completely exhausted … There was a lot of illness on the post, thought to be connected to the harsh winter climate. It seemed to be widespread, though. Influenza … The newspapers, somewhat inclined to sensationalism anyway, appeared to be going wild on this. They wrote of the frequent cases that were cropping up in various parts of the country, and of the degree of contagion. They began to use words like “epidemic.”
Now, with the death toll rising, there was increasing alarm. It seemed that this was a more virulent “flu” than any that had been seen for a generation or more, with a much higher death rate.
To add to the problems with this “new flu,” the Great War was in progress. More people were traveling, worldwide, than ever before. Consequently, the disease was spread by people who were contagious for a few days before they
realized their coming illness. No one knew where it had started, but military bases were hit especially hard because of troop movements. There was a constant flow of personnel in all directions, to and from all parts of the world. The newspapers were now referring to the “worldwide pandemic.” Word leaking out of Germany hinted that it was a crisis there, too.
But John was merely tired. With many of the troops reporting on sick call, the platoon was shorthanded. Some had even been hospitalized at the infirmary on the post. This had resulted in extra work for those still healthy, and more responsibilities for the noncommissioned officers. The increased work load was frustrating, and in turn, exhausting.
The day was over, and John looked forward to an opportunity to rest. Maybe he’d lie down a little while before mess call … . He wasn’t very hungry anyway … . Maybe even skip supper …
He was passing headquarters area, looking forward to reaching his bunk in the barracks. Just then, the bugler sounded retreat, the end of the working day. Everyone on the post was expected to pause to observe the lowering of the flag by the color guard.
John turned automatically to face the ceremony, and came stiffly to attention as the plaintive strains of the bugle call floated across the parade ground. Old Glory fluttered slowly, oh, so slowly, down the pole toward the waiting hands of the color guard. The flag must be lowered slowly, he recited to himself, as if in regret. It is raised quickly in the morning, in jubilation. Flag etiquette, taught to all new recruits. But surely, they could do it a Little faster. His knees were feeling wobbly. He’d be okay if he could get to the barracks, where he could lie down … .
He tried to focus his eyes on the flagpole and the brightly fluttering Stars and Stripes. It was a blur, a confusing shimmer that assaulted his vision and made his head throb. The top of the pole appeared to be swaying as he tried to clear his thoughts. The gilded knob on the tip was tipping slowly toward him now … . Too far away to hit him, though … No danger … There was a buzzing in his ears … . The pole was still tipping, falling slowly … NO! He was falling, still stiffly at attention. The buzzing in his head became louder, and he no longer had any control of his body. The ground rushed up against him, just before he struck, a brilliant white light flew toward him out of the distance somewhere and exploded in his face.
John awakened slowly, his head still buzzing. He was no longer on the parade in front of headquarters, but in a building somewhere. It seemed much like a barracks. But where it should have had rows of beds covered with olive-drab blankets, everything was white. Beds, blankets, walls, ceiling. An irrational thought flitted through his mind: Was he dead, and this the white man’s Other Side, the Great Mystery of life and death, which the missionaries called
“Heaven”? Since it had a military appearance, maybe this was the heaven of the bluecoats, the white man’s warrior society. Some tribes, he had heard, had a special Other Side home for warriors. Maybe …
“Oh, you’re awake,” said the voice of a white-clad angel at the foot of his bed.
Her face and hair were like those of the angels in the biblical picture books that occasionally had turned up at the reservation school. Bright golden hair, with the setting sun from the window across the room streaming through it. The angle of the sunbeam had a tendency to darken the features of the face itself. But he could easily see that she had the most beautiful of smiles. It was gentle, friendly, happy yet concerned. Another irrational thought: I am dead; so is Jane. Here she is and we meet again. It was comforting, but such hopes were dashed quickly.
“Glad you’re awake!” the angel said. “We need to start your treatment.”
“Treatment?” he muttered weakly. “What is this place?”
“The post hospital, of course,” chuckled the angel. “You’re really confused, trooper.”
Then I’m not dead? He started to ask, but realized that it would sound pretty stupid.
“Who are you?” he asked instead.
“My name is Jackson. I’m a nurse.”
Gradually, it began to make sense. But he could not lie here, helpless. The platoon was short-staffed, already.
“I have to get back to duty,” he told the nurse. “They’re short—”
As he spoke, he tried to sit up and swing his legs out of the cot. He found that he could lift his head only about six inches. Nothing else seemed to work at all. He felt a moment of panic … . His head fell back.
“Okay, trooper. Now you just discovered what I was about to say. You aren’t goin’ anywhere. You have the flu … influenza.”
His head was clearing, now. She had mentioned treatment.
“How long, and what treatment?” he asked weakly.
“That’s more like it.” She smiled. “A long time … Maybe three or four weeks, if you’re doing well.”
“Weeks?”
“Oh, yes. You try to cut it short, you’ll be back and a lot sicker!”
“You mentioned treatment?”
“Yes, we’ll get you started. Enemas, today, to cleanse the bowel.”
She paused at the look of alarm on his face, and smiled.
“One of the medics will do that,” she assured him. “Then, hot mustard footbaths … Hot packs to the torso to sweat out the poisons. You’ll have to drink a lot of fluids. And, just rest while you have a chance. It’s back to duty when you’re well.”
John didn’t comment, but the idea of drinking a lot of fluids was not very
appealing. His stomach was queasy, and putting anything in it would be a challenge. As for an “enema,” he wasn’t sure what it was, but he was already reluctant. It sounded far too much like “enemy” to make him comfortable.
He tried to remember what he’d heard about the epidemic. None of it was very good news. As an old gambler, he wondered about his odds, but somehow felt that it would be inappropriate to ask. Probably Nurse Jackson wouldn’t tell him, anyway.
He sank back resignedly to wait and see.