6

Joe

Lieutenant Shaw said the elevator was too slow, so Joe followed her up the stairs to the third floor, still carrying his bag. He stayed three steps behind her, fearing she might yell at him if he got too close.

When they reached the double doors, he hurried in front of her and opened one.

She stopped a moment and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“What area?”

Joe squared his shoulders, worried that she judged him harshly for being a conscientious objector, but then immediately chastised himself. He’d never cared before what others thought of him. “I’m from Lancaster County,” he answered.

She frowned a little and said, “I wondered.” She gestured toward the hall and led the way. “Have you worked in a hospital before?”

“No,” he answered. He’d never even been in a hospital.

She exhaled.

“I’m a fast learner,” he quickly added.

“Let’s hope so.” She turned and pushed through the second double door and stepped into the ward. Joe followed. A mix of smells—blood, urine, and even linoleum wax—hung heavy in the air. Beds were lined up on both sides of the ward, filled with soldiers. Some had bandages wrapped around stumps of arms and legs. Others were in body casts. Many had bandages wrapped around their heads.

“You’ll be bathing and feeding soldiers, dressing wounds, and moving patients. You’ll learn by doing. Don’t take the trauma of each soldier onto yourself or you’ll soon be discouraged and then overwhelmed. Stay upbeat. It’s good for everyone.”

Joe searched the woman’s eyes and saw a flicker of pain.

One of the patients, a young man with an amputated leg, said loudly, “Nurse. Where have you been?”

“Not far.” Her voice had changed. It was more lighthearted now. “You know I’d never leave you.”

“That’s good,” he replied.

Lt. Shaw motioned toward Joe. “We have a new orderly. This is Joe Bachmann from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.”

“A Dutchy,” a man with both arms in casts called out.

“Be nice. He’s going to be feeding you,” Lt. Shaw countered. “And I’m guessing”—she glanced toward him—“he’s a good man.”

Joe’s face grew warm. Maybe she wasn’t as harsh as he’d feared. But then she added, “Like all of you! Now, we’ll finish dressing your wounds so everyone will be ready for their supper.”

After he stashed his bag and jacket at the nurses’ station, Joe rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and followed Lt. Shaw to the supply cabinet. They gathered basins, sponges, gauze, and tape.

“Fill the basins and follow me,” she said, taking the sponges, gauze, and tape in her hands.

He retreated back to the sink, did as he was told, and then carried a basin in each of his big hands, passing the elevator doors. At least he guessed it was the elevator. He’d never been on one—he’d only heard about them. He joined Lt. Shaw at the back of the ward. They were the only nurse and orderly for around forty patients.

“Half of the soldiers had their dressings changed this morning,” she explained. “But now we need to get the rest done.”

The ward was warm and stuffy, even with the south windows open. The sharp scent of the antiseptic turned Joe’s stomach at first, but after a while he became accustomed to it. They worked on the first few patients together as Lt. Shaw showed Joe how to change the dressings. He’d seen plenty of gore on the farm and had attended to animal wounds and injuries in the family, but amputations and open wounds stopped him. He thought of Faith telling him he’d never amount to anything, but he hoped he could do the right thing here. He prayed silently, asking God to give him the strength he needed. He knew he’d try his best, at least.

After assisting Lt. Shaw with several dressings, she sent him to the other side of the room to work on those soldiers.

Once he was away from the lieutenant, Joe chatted with the men, asking where they were from. The first, Bennie, was from Maine. He had an amputated leg. “The bullet hit me in the knee, right in the joint. I waited out on a battlefield in Italy, on the western seaboard, for a couple of hours before the ambulance driver could get to me,” he said. “Our medic had been killed, so I was entirely dependent on the driver to care for me. I’ve always wondered if they would have gotten to me earlier, if they could have saved my leg. I sure do miss it.”

Joe listened attentively to Bennie.

The man continued. “But I was one of the lucky ones. Others all around me died. If we’d had more medics and ambulance drivers they might have been saved.” Joe couldn’t even imagine what the man had gone through, along with so many others. As Joe unwound the bandages around Bennie’s leg, he kept himself from shuddering. The wound was festering and hadn’t seemed to heal properly. Joe didn’t feel qualified to tend it, but he did the best he could, praying the soldier couldn’t discern his horror at the sight of it. The soldier winced, and Joe apologized.

“Not your fault.” He shook like a scared calf, which made Joe feel all the worse.

When Joe finished, Bennie thanked him. Perhaps he could tell Joe was nervous about his work because he said, “You’re doing just fine.”

Next, Joe changed the dressing on a man who had lost his arm at his elbow. His face was hard and his disposition angry. “My brother went down with the Arizona during Pearl Harbor,” he said. “You should be ashamed for not fighting.”

Joe made sure his voice was steady before he spoke. “I’m sorry about your brother. And I’m sorry about your arm.”

“Don’t be,” the man said.

Joe continued on. By the time he finished, he’d forgotten his initial queasiness. In fact, his stomach was growling, but it was time to feed the soldiers their supper. As he washed his hands, Lt. Shaw joined him. He told her Bennie’s wound didn’t look good, and she responded that she’d note it in his chart and ask the doctor to take a look.

The elevator opened, and two orderlies wearing white pants and white shirts pushed carts out onto the floor. The shallow shelves were filled with trays of chicken noodle soup and slices of bread.

“You distribute the food,” Lt. Shaw said, “and I’ll start feeding those who need help. Then you can help me finish up.”

Joe wondered who would have been helping her all afternoon if he hadn’t arrived when he did, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he delivered meal after meal. The slices of bread were all thin, store-bought it seemed, and covered with what Joe guessed was margarine. He’d read about it in the newspaper but hadn’t seen it before. By the time Joe started the second row, men on the first row were already done eating. Bennie asked for more. Joe turned toward Lt. Shaw, but she shook her head without raising it before he even asked.

Joe figured Bennie knew the policy but was hoping he could get more food out of the new guy.

The soup smelled better than it looked. Joe thought of his Mamm’s chicken noodle soup. His sisters made it now, but it was never as good as their mother’s. Of course he’d never tell them that. Here, however, he’d more than welcome his sisters’ soup.

He exhaled after he served the last of the capable patients and then returned the tray. He picked up another one and headed toward the man with both arms in casts.

“Where are you from?” Joe asked.

The man grunted.

Joe dipped the spoon into the bowl. The man was eager to eat and cooperated, taking in spoonful after spoonful. Joe fed him the bread too, all without saying any more.

When he was finished, he smiled at the man, but didn’t receive one in return. Joe took care of the bowl and tray and then moved on to feed the next patient.

The light outside the ward grew darker. Just as Joe finished feeding the last soldier, another nurse came onto the unit.

“Lt. Shaw,” she called out from the nurses’ station. “Who’s helping you?”

“We have a new orderly.”

“Another CO?”

“That’s right.”

Lt. Shaw started toward the nurses’ station while Joe returned the tray and bowl back to the cart.

“I’m going to put you back on nights,” the other nurse said to Lt. Shaw. “And the new orderly—what did you say his name is?”

“Joe Bachmann.”

“I’ll put him on nights too. Starting tomorrow evening.”

“All right.” Lt. Shaw sounded exhausted.

“You can stay and help me get everyone ready for bed,” the other nurse said, “since you won’t have to report in the morning. The orderly too.”

“Oh, don’t make him,” Lt. Shaw said. “He’s been traveling. He just arrived this afternoon.”

“I’ll stay,” Joe said. “Why don’t you let Lt. Shaw go rest?”

“Well.” The other nurse put her hand on her hip. “A real gentleman.” She extended her hand. “I’m Lt. Madison.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Joe said.

“Thank you for your offer, but you should go on down to the basement and find your room. Captain Russell should be back by now. He’ll show you around. Report back here tomorrow at 2200, sharp. In fact, be a few minutes early. We prefer that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He feared he’d just made Lt. Shaw’s load harder instead of easier, as he’d intended. Joe stepped behind the counter to collect his bag and jacket. He glanced down at his new white shirt. It was splattered with blood.

Lt. Madison turned toward Lt. Shaw. “Get started on the meds. I’ll help in a minute.”

Lt. Shaw said, “Yes, ma’am” and stepped toward a cabinet. But then she turned toward Joe. “The cafeteria is on the first floor. Go get something to eat before you report to Captain Russell or you might end up going to bed hungry.”

Joe thanked her and headed to the stairwell, thankful he’d have a chance to work with Lt. Shaw and get to know her better. There was something both foreign and familiar about her.

The cafeteria was crowded with doctors, nurses, orderlies, and other hospital staff. Joe found an empty seat in the back of the cafeteria, slid his tray onto the table, and placed his bag on the chair beside him. Two nurses sat at the other end of the table, joking with each other over the clatter of dishes and spoons. Neither said hello to him. He suddenly felt a wave of homesickness. Everything was so different here. The people. The setting. The chatter.

He quickly consumed his bowl of soup and a piece of the bread that hardly had any taste. The texture of the margarine was odd too, so he swallowed it quickly.

Once he was done, he watched others take their trays to the far end of the cafeteria and slide them into a small opening. He did likewise and realized a crew was washing dishes behind the wall.

He went back to the stairwell and headed down another flight, gripping his bag. Once he reached the basement, he headed down the hall toward voices. An orderly stepped out of a doorway and started toward him.

“Hallo,” Joe said. “I’m looking for Captain Russell.”

“His office is the next one down,” the man said.

The door was closed so Joe knocked. When no one answered, he knocked again, this time louder.

“What do you want?”

“I’m Joe Bachmann,” he called out. “Reporting for duty.”

“It’s unlocked.”

He opened the door and stepped into the small room.

A man wearing a khaki uniform kept his head down as he wrote on a form. Joe stood with his bag in his hand, waiting.

The man looked up. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and wore his hair short.

Joe extended his orders.

The man read them quickly and then said, “Grab two uniforms, linens, a blanket, a towel, and a pillow from the shelf.” He nodded toward the side of the room. “Then find an empty bed in the barracks.”

“Where is that?” Joe asked.

“Two doors to your right, down here in the basement,” the captain said. “The women have a dormitory on the top floor. No men are allowed up there for any reason. Understand?”

Joe’s face warmed. “Of course.”

“Report to the third floor at 0700 tomorrow morning.”

“Sir,” Joe said. “I worked there this afternoon, and Lt. Madison told me to report for night shift tomorrow.”

A look of amusement passed over the captain’s face. “You’ll follow my orders, not Lt. Madison’s.” The man nodded toward Joe’s shirt. “Take that to the laundry—it’s at the other end of the basement. They’ll get the blood out for you.”

Joe nodded, thanked the man, and quickly retrieved the items from the shelves. As he walked through the barracks, several of the men climbed off their beds and shook his hand. One was from New York. He definitely wasn’t Amish. Another was a Mennonite man from Ohio. Another was a Quaker from Philadelphia. A dark-skinned man introduced himself as Ali. He was from Newark, New Jersey. “I’m Moslem,” he said.

Joe had never met a Moslem person, or someone who was a Quaker either. All of the men were polite and welcoming. He continued on until he found an empty bed.

He didn’t mind working the day shift the next morning, but he did regret he wouldn’t be working with Lt. Shaw.

Joe didn’t sleep well that night even though he was exhausted. The noises from the other men and the honks and sirens outside the basement windows woke him over and over. He rose early before anyone else, showered, and dressed in his all-white uniform. After he ate breakfast, he arrived on the ward a half hour early. Of course, the nurse and orderly who’d worked all night were happy to see him.

But when Lt. Madison arrived, she was annoyed. At first she chastised him for disobeying her, but after he said he was following Captain Russell’s orders, she pursed her lips and spun away from him.

She did seem pleased to boss him around, however. Joe started out with managing the bedpans. Next, he and Lt. Madison fed the patients, then distributed the meds, and bathed the soldiers. They dressed the worst of the wounds and assisted several doctors, including Captain Russell, when they came through on their rounds.

They repeated the feeding process at noon. After they’d finished, Lt. Madison grabbed an extra sandwich off the tray and told Joe to do the same.

Then they dressed more of the wounds. At three p.m., another nurse and orderly arrived. Although the tasks were foreign to Joe, and he was definitely learning how to do them under a fair amount of stress, he didn’t feel as if he’d put in a whole day’s work. At home he was used to being in the fields twelve hours or more in the spring and summer.

He retreated to the barracks and took a piece of paper, an envelope, and a stamp from the trunk at the end of his bed where he’d stored his things. He started a letter home, writing about the train trip, Lake Michigan and Chicago, the hospital, and his first two days of work. So far, I’ve been able to do the tasks required of me, he wrote. I’ve met all sorts of interesting people from different places—Ohio, New York, New Jersey, and Philadelphia. Objecting to fighting seems to be what we have in common. Joe couldn’t help but wonder what the other men thought of him.

That evening, he looked for Lt. Shaw in the cafeteria but didn’t see her. Afterward, he sat in the barracks across from Ali. He had the darkest skin Joe had ever seen—a color comparable to coffee with just a little bit of cream. He’d been working at the hospital for three months. Joe listened to his story.

“Are all Moslems nonresistant?” Joe asked.

“Nonresistant?”

“Pacifists.” Joe knew that was the more common term, although it wasn’t a synonym for nonresistant. Not only did the Amish not believe in fighting, they didn’t believe in defending themselves either.

Ali shook his head. “There are many beliefs among those who follow Islam, just like with other faiths. Not all Moslems are conscientious objectors.” The man said he had a wife and son back home.

Joe wondered who was supporting his family while he was gone but didn’t ask. Hopefully Ali had relatives or friends who were helping.

Ali asked Joe if he wanted to go for a walk in the neighborhood surrounding the hospital, and Joe gladly accepted the invitation.

Outside, two boys stopped them, asking if they’d buy war bonds.

Ali said, “No, thank you,” and Joe nodded his head in agreement.

One of the boys sneered at them and said, “Don’t you care if our soldiers die?”

Ali explained that they worked as orderlies at the hospital and that they very much wanted for the soldiers to live.

The other boy grabbed the first boy’s arm and they turned down the street.

At least the doctors and nurses in the hospital seemed to value what the conscientious objectors did. So far, none of them had been negative in any way, at least not in front of Joe.

In fact, Captain Russell had complimented him earlier in the day, saying he had a knack for medicine. “You should join up,” he said. “Six weeks of training at Fort Drum and you’d be ready to head to the front line to take care of soldiers there. With your strength and quick feet, you’d be a big help.”

Joe just smiled.

Later that night, as Joe finished his letter, he realized that not only did he miss his family, but he also missed speaking Pennsylvania Dutch. Speaking Englisch was a bit of an effort for him. Jah, being away from home was harder than he’d expected.

The next morning, he rose early again. After he’d made his bed, tidied up, and showered, he headed to the cafeteria. As he ate a bowl of oatmeal, he hoped he’d see Lt. Shaw on the ward at the change of shift.

After he finished breakfast, he headed up the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. As he neared the floor, he heard shouting, which compelled him to run the rest of the way. When he reached the floor, an orderly and Lt. Shaw held a patient on his back, flat against the mattress.

Joe rushed to the side of the bed.

“Grab his arms,” Lt. Shaw ordered.

Joe did as he was told, pinning the man down.

“I’ll be right back.” She ran to the medicine cabinet.

The patient writhed and shouted, “Let me go!” He cursed and tried to yank his arms away.

Joe held on, leaning on the man. “It’s all right,” Joe murmured.

The man cursed again, his gray eyes wild, pupils dilated.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Joe began to sing one of the few hymns he knew in Englisch, one that Charity had recently taught him. “When peace like a river, attendeth my way . . .”

The man kept thrashing, breaking one leg loose from the other orderly. Joe kept singing as he swung his right leg up and pinned the man down with his knee. As he sang, he prayed Lt. Shaw would hurry up with whatever she went to get. He was afraid if the man broke free, he might throw a punch.

Joe kept singing. “Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come . . .”

Finally, Lt. Shaw returned with a syringe in her hand.

The man yelled again, but she ignored him as she lifted his gown and plunged the needle into the flesh of his backside.

“This will help you.” Her face was flushed, but she kept her voice calm. She whispered, “Don’t let go, boys, until I tell you.”

Joe held on to the man. Within a couple of minutes, the soldier began to relax, and his lids closed over his wild eyes.

“Let go of him. Slowly,” Lt. Shaw said.

Joe moved his knee and the other orderly let go of the man’s other leg. Joe let go of one arm and then the other.

Lt. Shaw exhaled.

“What happened?” Joe asked.

Bennie, who was in the next bed, piped up. “He’s crazy, that’s what happened.”

Lt. Shaw wrinkled her nose. “I hope he didn’t have a reaction to a medication. I’ll let Captain Russell know. Or perhaps it’s his nerves.” She lowered her voice. “Battle fatigue. It hits some out of the blue, or so it seems. Others struggle with it every day.”

Joe hadn’t ever seen anyone with battle fatigue, but he had heard of it. During the War to End All Wars, he’d been told it was called shell shock.

Two other orderlies arrived with the breakfast carts, and then once Lt. Madison arrived, Lt. Shaw finished up her charting while Joe started feeding the patients who couldn’t feed themselves and Lt. Madison passed out the bowls of oatmeal to the other patients.

“See you later,” Lt. Shaw said to the other nurse.

Lt. Madison turned toward her, a tray in her hands. “I hope you’re not upset about being back on nights.”

“Not at all.” Lt. Shaw smiled, though she looked absolutely spent.

“It’s really the easier shift,” Lt. Madison continued.

Lt. Shaw nodded. “It’s fine. Really.” Then she turned toward Joe. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t arrived.” Her blue eyes glistened. “Denki.”

Joe smiled. “Glad I could help.”

It wasn’t until after she left the ward that he realized she’d thanked him in Pennsylvania Dutch.