5

General Hardy’s Profession

Miss Kanter was not quite certain whether she was in love with Dr. Blausman or not, but she felt that the privilege of working for such a man repaid and balanced her devotion, even though Dr. Blausman never made a pass at her or even allowed her that peculiar intimacy that many men have with their secretaries. It was not that Dr. Blausman was cold; he was happily married and utterly devoted to his work and his family, and brilliant. Miss Kanter had wept very real tears of joy when he was elected president of the Society.

In her own right, Miss Kanter was skilled and devoted, and after five years with Dr. Blausman she had developed a very keen clinical perception of her own. When she took a history of a new patient, it was not only complete but pointed and revealing. In the case of Alan Smith, however, there was a noticeable hiatus.

“Which troubles me somewhat,” Dr. Blausman remarked. “I dislike taking anyone who isn’t a referral.”

“He has been referred, or recommended, I suppose. He mentioned the air shuttle, which makes me think he is either from Washington or Boston. Washington, I would say. I imagine that it would make trouble for him if it got out that he was going into therapy.”

“Trouble?”

“You know how the government is about those things.”

“You must have found him very appealing.”

“Very good-looking, Doctor. You know, I am a woman.” Miss Kanter seized opportunities to remind Dr. Blausman. “But very desperate for help. If he is government and high government—well, that might be very meaningful, might it not?”

“Still, he refuses to say who recommended him?”

“Yes. But I’m sure you’ll get it out of him.”

“You told him my fee?”

“Of course.”

“Was his face familiar?”

“It was one of those faces that seem to be. But I have no idea who he really is.”

Neither did Dr. Blausman have any sure idea of who the new patient was. It was the following day, and across the desk from Dr. Blausman sat a strongly built, handsome man, with pale blue eyes, iron-gray hair, and a square jaw that would have done credit to a Western star of the thirties. He was about forty-five years old, six feet or so in height, and appeared to be in excellent physical condition. He was nervous, but that was a symptom that brought patients into the office in the first place.

“Well, Mr. Smith,” Dr. Blausman began, “suppose you tell me something about yourself, what made you seek me out, who referred you to me, your problems—”

“I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of psychoanalysis, Doctor.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s important that my knowledge should be a little more than rudimentary. Which I hope it is. But for the moment, forget about psychoanalysis. I am a psychiatrist, and I prefer to think of my work as psychotherapy. Does the thought of psychoanalysis disturb you?”

“I suppose it does. The couch and all that—”

“You can lie down if you wish, or you can sit in a chair. That’s not important, Mr. Smith. The point is to get at the root of what troubles you and to see whether we can alleviate the pain. We do that by establishing a relationship. So, you see, you have to be rather forthright. It is true that in the course of therapy, even lies can be revealing, but that’s not a good way to begin.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I think you do. I must know who you are. Otherwise—”

“I told you that my name is Alan Smith.”

“But it isn’t,” Blausman said gently.

“How do you know?”

“If I were not adept enough at my discipline to know, you would be making a mistake in coming to me.”

“I see.” The patient sat in silence for a moment or two. “And if I refuse to give you any other name?”

“Then I am afraid you must seek help elsewhere. There is a sufficient unknown in a person who meets me forth-rightly. In one who doesn’t—well, it is impossible.”

The patient nodded and appeared to reflect on the doctor’s words. “How confidential is your treatment?”

“Totally.”

“Do you make tapes?”

“No.”

“Do you take notes?”

“In most cases, yes. If there were sufficient reason not to keep notes, I would forgo it.” When the patient still hesitated, Dr. Blausman said, “Perhaps you would prefer to think about it and return tomorrow?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I also pride myself on being a judge of character, and I think I can trust you. My name is Franklin Hardy. General Franklin Hardy. I am a three-star general, second in command at the War Board. A three-star general who is second in command at the War Board does not consult a psychoanalyst.”

“Have you thought of resigning or taking a leave of absence, General Hardy?”

“I have thought of it—yes. My pride will not allow me to resign, and the situation today is too grave for me to take a leave of absence. Also, I don’t think I am unable to perform my duties. My country has a large investment in me, Dr. Blausman. I don’t feel it is my right to play fast and loose with that.”

“And how did you come to me? You are stationed in Washington, are you not?”

“At the Pentagon.”

“So if we were to have three sessions a week—and I am afraid that would be minimal—you would have to do a good deal of commuting. Isn’t that a burden?”

“I want this kept secret, and that might be impossible with a local man.”

“But why me?”

“I read a paper of yours and I was very impressed by it. Your monograph on the Amnesia Syndrome.”

“Oh? But surely you don’t feel you have amnesia?”

“Perhaps—I don’t know.”

“Very interesting.” Dr. Blausman stared at the General thoughtfully. “Since you read my paper, you are aware that there is an enormous variety of amnesia, loss of identity being most common in the public mind. You obviously do not suffer that. There are childhood amnesias, adolescent amnesias, traumatic amnesias, and a hundred other varieties, due to shock, brain injury, drugs, senility—well, I could go on and on. Why do you feel you suffer from amnesia?”

The General considered this for a while, and then he spoke flatly and abruptly. “I am not sure I know who I am.”

Dr. Blausman smiled slightly. “Most interesting indeed. But in what sense? I have many young patients who feel a desperate need to know who they are. But that is in a religious, philosophical, or teleological sense. What meaning has their presence on earth?”

“Not exactly.”

“You told me that you are General Franklin Hardy. I could ask you to show me your papers, but that’s hardly necessary.”

“Not at all.” The general went into his pocket and revealed a series of identity cards. He smiled a very engaging smile. “Of course, they are not my only source of information. I have been with the army for twenty-seven years, and there are no gaps in my memory. I have served in World War Two, in Korea, and in Vietnam. As you may recall.”

Dr. Blausman nodded. “I read the papers.” He waited a long moment. “Go on, sir.”

“All right, let me be specific. Three nights ago, I awakened. I am not married, Doctor. As I said, I awakened about four o’clock in the morning, and I was not General Hardy.”

“You are sure you were awake?”

“Absolutely sure. I was not dreaming. I got out of bed, and I was someone else.”

“In a strange place? I mean, was your bedroom strange to you? Was it completely dark?”

“No, I could see. I don’t draw the blinds, and there was moonlight. Was it strange to me?” He frowned and closed his eyes. “No—not entirely. I appeared to have a vague memory of a room that should have been completely familiar. I wondered what I was doing there. I felt that I should know.”

“And then?”

“And then I was myself again, and it was over. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. I was terribly shaken. I am not a man with poor nerves. I cannot remember being so shaken before.”

Dr. Blausman glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid our time is over for today. Can you come back on Wednesday, the same time?”

“Then you will—?”

“Help you? Treat you? Yes, however you wish to see it.”

When the doctor took his break for lunch, he said to his secretary, “You can make up a new history for Mr. Smith, Miss Kanter. He’ll be back on Wednesday.”

“Did you crack the mystery?”

“If you think of it that way. He’s General Franklin Hardy.”

“What!”

“Yes, General Hardy.”

“And—and you—hell, it’s none of my business.”

“Exactly. I am not a moralist or a jurist, Miss Kanter. I am a physician.”

“But, my God, Vietnam is not just a war. You know his record.”

“What would you say if he came here bleeding, Miss Kanter? Would it be proper to put a tourniquet on him? Or would it be more moralistic to allow him to bleed to death?”

“Are you asking me, Doctor?”

“No, I am telling you, Miss Kanter.”

“You don’t have to get angry. Mine is a normal, human reaction. Anyway, it is a comfort to know that he has flipped out.”

“He has not, as you put it, flipped out. Furthermore, this is to be absolutely confidential. He asked for my confidence, and I gave it to him. No one is to know that he is a patient of mine, not your father, not your mother, not your boyfriend—no one. Do you understand?”

“Loud and clear.” Miss Kanter sighed.

Sitting opposite Dr. Blausman in a comfortable chair, his legs stretched out, General Hardy remarked that he had not thought of therapy in just this manner.

“It’s the end product that counts, General—to find out why. Do you dream a great deal?”

“As much as the next one, I suppose. I don’t remember them.”

“I’d like you to takes notes. Keep a pencil and pad next to your bed. Now the night this happened—it was not the first time?”

“No, not the first time.”

“When was the first time?”

“Two years ago, in Vietnam. We had been set back on our heels by Charlie’s big offensive, and we had taken some pretty heavy losses. There was a lot of loose talk, and at one of our meetings the use of tactical atomic weapons was put on the agenda. Against my will, mind you. No sane or reasonable man can even think of tactical atomic weapons without going into a cold sweat, but since they were determined to talk about them, I decided to let them talk and get it out of their systems. After all, they could do nothing without my vote. I listened to the discussion, and there was one idiot there—who shall be nameless—who was all for using the tacticals and ending the war in hours. Of course it wouldn’t have ended the war—no way—but he was off on a laboratory kick, that we’d never know how they worked until we worked them, and this was the one place it made sense to experiment. I kept my mouth shut, because there is nothing to defeat an argument like its own loopholes, and then it happened.”

“What happened?”

“I was no longer General Hardy. I was someone else, and I was listening to this featherbrain and laughing inside at his whole proposition.”

“Laughing? In what way?”

“Not contempt, not disapproval—I was laughing the way you laugh at a kid who has a new toy and has gone hog-wild with it. I was amused and—” He broke off.

“What were you going to say?”

The General remained silent.

“I am not a Congressional Committee,” Blausman said softly. “I am not the public. I am a physician. I am not here to confront you or expose you, but to help you. If you don’t want that help—well, the door is open.”

“I know the damn door is open!” the General cried. “Do you think I’d be here if I could live with this? I was going to say that I was amused and delighted.”

“Why didn’t you say it?”

“Because the I is a lie. Not me. Not Franklin Hardy. The other one.”

“Why do you say the other one?” Blausman asked. “Why not the other man?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have read about possession? By evil entities?”

“Yes.”

“It has interesting psychological references. Do you have the feeling—I only speak of the feeling—that you were possessed?”

“No!”

“You appear very certain.”

“I am certain,” the General said emphatically.

“Why?”

“Because this is myself. Because the syndrome—as you call it—is not being possessed or used or manipulated, but simply remembering. I remember who I am.”

“Who?”

“That’s the damn trick. It passes too quickly.”

“At this meeting, how long did this memory last?”

“A minute. A little more, a little less.”

“And as I understand it,” Dr. Blausman said carefully, “during that time you were delighted and amused at the thought of using atomic tactical weapons. Will you accept that?”

“You’re asking me do I have the guts to?” the General said harshly. “All right, I do. I accept your statement, but not as Franklin Hardy. I accept it as the man who was amused.”

“Whom you insist is yourself?”

“Yes. Do you understand now why I commute from Washington each day to see a psychiatrist?”

“What was the outcome of the meeting?”

“You know that. Atomic weapons are not firecrackers. We squashed the whole notion.”

On his next visit, Dr. Blausman returned to the nighttime incident, asking the General whether he had been awakened from sleep at other times.

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

Hardy thought for a while. “Fourteen—or thirteen.”

“Always the same time?”

“No. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later.”

“Does one occasion stand out more than any other?”

“Yes.” Then the General clamped his square jaw shut, and his pale blue eyes avoided the doctor’s. The doctor waited.

“But you don’t want to talk about it,” Blausman said at last. “Why?”

“God damn you to hell, must you know everything?”

“Not everything. I don’t ask you who you are sleeping with, or for the secret plans of the War Board, or what your golf score is,” Blausman said gently. “If you had a piece of shrapnel in your left arm, I would not be fussing over your right foot. By the way, were you ever wounded?”

“No.”

“Amazing luck, with your experience. Now let’s go back to this waking up at night. That one occasion you don’t want to talk about. It is nothing you are afraid of.”

“How do you know?”

“You get disturbed but not frightened, There’s a difference. What happened that night, General?”

“I woke up, and I was someone else.”

“You were someone else. What makes that night stand out?”

“You won’t let go, will you?”

“Otherwise I am taking your money under false pretenses,” Blausman said gently. “So you might as well tell me about that night.”

“All right. I woke up. It was last May, and I was still in Vietnam. It was almost dawn. I was myself—not Hardy—and God almighty, I felt good. I felt like I had swallowed ten grains of Dexedrine and put down a pint of bourbon without getting drunk. Christ, what power, what sheer physical strength and joy! I wanted to run, to leap, to use my strength, as if I had been in a straitjacket for years. I felt that I was complete.”

“For how long?”

“Two or three minutes.”

“You went outside?”

“How did you know?” the General asked curiously. “Yes, I went outside in my robe. It was like walking on air, the sun just coming up, the kind of clean, cool, wonderful morning you get sometimes in that part of Vietnam. There was an iron fence in front of my quarters. Pointed bars, like a row of spears, an inch thick. I reached out and bent one of them, like I might bend rubber.”

“You’re a strong man.”

“Not that strong. Well—then it was gone. I was Franklin Hardy again.”

“Why hesitate to tell me?” Blausman asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember what you said a moment ago? You said that when you woke up, you were yourself, not General Hardy. That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“It is odd,” Hardy admitted, frowning. “I always said I was someone else, didn’t I?”

“Until now.”

“What do you make of it?”

“What do you make of it, General? That’s the important thing.”

When the General had left, Dr. Blausman asked Miss Kanter whether Alexander the Great had ever been wounded.

“I was a history dropout. They let me substitute sociology. Does the General think he’s Alexander the Great?”

“How about Napoleon?”

“Was he wounded? Or does the General think he’s Napoleon?”

“I want you to hire a researcher,” Dr. Blausman said. “Let him pick up the three hundred most important military leaders in history. I want to know how many died in battle and how many were wounded.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly so.”

“As long as you pay for it,” Miss Kanter said.

In the next session, Dr. Blausman asked the General about dreams. “You have been taking notes?”

“Once.”

“Only once?”

“It appears that I dreamed only once. Or remembered only once long enough to get the notebook.”

“Tell me about it.”

“As much as I can remember. I was driving a truck.”

“What kind of a truck? I want you to be very specific and to try to remember every detail you can.”

“It was a tank truck. I know that. It was a shiny metal tank truck, strong motor, six speeds forward—” He closed his eyes and then shook his head.

“All right, it was a tank truck. Oil—milk—chemicals—chocolate syrup—which one? Try to think, try to visualize it.”

The General kept his eyes closed. His handsome face was set and intent, his brow furrowed. “It was a tank truck, all right, a big, gutsy son of a bitch. The gearing was marked on the shift bar, but I knew it. I didn’t have to be coached. I got out of it once, walked around it. Pipes—”

“What kind of pipes?”

“Black plastic, I guess. Beautiful pumping equipment. I remember thinking that whoever built that job knew what he was doing.”

“Why did you get out of it?”

“I thought I had to use it.”

“For what?” Blausman insisted. “For what?”

He shook his head, opened his eyes now. “I don’t know.”

“Fire truck?”

“No—never.”

“Then you got back in the truck?”

“Yes. I started off again. In low gear, she whined like some kind of mad cat.”

“Where were you? What was the place like?”

“A dead place. Like desert, only it wasn’t desert. It was a place that had once been alive, and now it was dead and withered.”

“Withered? Do you mean there were trees? Plants?”

The General shook his head. “It was desert. Nothing grew there.”

“You started the truck again. Where were you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it. What were you?”

“What do you mean, what was I?”

“What was your profession?”

“I told you I was driving a truck.”

“But was that your profession?” Blausman pressed him. “Did you think of yourself as a truck driver?”

After a moment of thought, the General said, “No. I didn’t think of myself as a truck driver.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. What damn difference does it make?”

“All the damn difference in the world.” Blausman nodded. “A man is what he does. Did you ever notice the way kids talk about what they are going to be when they grow up? They will be what they do. A man is his profession, his work. What was the profession of the man who was driving the truck?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“You were driving the truck. Who were you? Were you General Hardy?”

“No.”

“How were you dressed? Did you wear a uniform?”

Again General Hardy closed his eyes.

“Did you bring your notes with you?” the doctor asked.

“I know what was in my notes.”

“Then you wore a uniform?”

“Yes,” Hardy whispered.

“What kind?”

Hardy frowned and clenched his fists.

“What kind of a uniform?” Blausman persisted.

Hardy shook his head.

“Try to remember,” Blausman said gently. “It’s important.”

Blausman took him to the door, and as it closed behind him, Miss Kanter said, “God, he’s handsome.”

“Yes, isn’t he?”

“I wonder what it’s like to be a General’s wife?”

“You’re losing your moral principles, Miss Kanter.”

“I am simply speculating, which has nothing to do with morality.”

“What about the research?”

“My goodness,” said Miss Kanter, “you only told me about it the day before yesterday.”

“Then this is the third day. What have you got?”

“I gave it to Evelyn Bender, who is a friend of mine and teaches history at Hunter College, and she was absolutely enthralled with the idea and she’s going to charge you a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I said, what have you got?”

“Now?”

“Right now. Call her up.”

Miss Kanter started to argue, looked at Dr. Blausman, and then called Evelyn Bender at Hunter College. Blausman went back to his office and his next patient. When that patient had left, Miss Kanter informed Dr. Blausman, rather tartly, that Mrs. Bender had only begun the project.

“She must have some indications. Did you ask her that?”

“Knowing you, I asked her. She’s a scholar, you know, and they hate to guess.”

“But she guessed.”

“She thinks that perhaps ninety percent died in bed. She indicated that very few wounds are recorded.”

“Keep after her.”

There was a noticeable difference about General Hardy when he came back for his next visit. He sat down in the comfortable armchair that substituted for the couch, and he stared at Dr. Blausman long and thoughtfully before he said anything at all. His blue eyes were very cold and very distant.

“You’ve been thinking about your profession,” Blausman said.

“Whose profession? This time you say my profession.”

“I was interested in what your reaction would be.”

“I see. Do you know how I spent the weekend?”

“Tell me.”

“Reading up on schizophrenia.”

“Why did you do that?” the doctor asked.

“Curiosity—reasonable curiosity. I wondered why you had never mentioned it.”

“Because you are not schizophrenic.”

“How do you know?”

“I have been in practice twenty-three years, General Hardy. It would be rather odd if I could not spot schizophrenia.”

“In anyone?”

“Yes, in anyone. Certainly after the second visit.”

“Then if I am not schizophrenic, Dr. Blausman, what explanation do you have for my condition?”

“What explanation do you have, General?”

“Well, now—the neurotic finds his own source, uncovers his own well of horror—is that it, Doctor?”

“More or less.”

“Dreams are very important in the Freudian scheme of things. Are you a Freudian analyst, Doctor?”

“Every analyst is more or less a Freudian, General. He developed the techniques of our discipline. We have perhaps changed many of his techniques, modified many of his premises, but we remain Freudians, even those of us who angrily repudiate the label.”

“I was speaking of dreams.”

“Of course,” Blausman agreed calmly. “Dreams are important. The patient uses them to deal with his problems. But instead of the realities of his waking world, he clothes his problem in symbols. Sometimes the symbols are very obscure, very obscure indeed. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes they are obvious.”

“As in my dream?”

“Yes, as in your dream.”

“Then if you understood the symbols, why not tell me?”

“Because that would accomplish nothing of consequence. It is up to you to discover the meaning of the symbols. And now you know.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I think so, yes.”

“And the truck?”

“An exterminator’s truck, obviously. I see you have remembered who you are.”

“I am General Franklin Hardy.”

“That would make you schizophrenic. I told you before that you are not schizophrenic.”

“You say you have been in practice twenty-three years. Have you ever had a case like mine before, Doctor?”

“In a non-schizophrenic? No.”

“Then does it make medical history of sorts?”

“Perhaps. I would have to know more about it.”

“I admire your scientific detachment.”

“Not so scientific that I am without very ordinary curiosity. Who are you, sir?”

“Before I answer that, let me pose a question, Doctor. Has it never occurred to you that in the history and practice of what we call mankind, there is a certain lack of logic?”

“It has occurred to me.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I am a psychiatrist, General. I deal with psychosis and neurosis, neither of which is logical. Understandable, yes. Logical, no.”

“You miss the point.”

“Do I?” Blausman said patiently. “Then what is the point?”

“The point is fantastic.”

“There is very little that astonishes me.”

“Good. Then allow me to put it to you this way. The earth is a beautiful, rich, and splendid planet. It has all things that man desires, but none of these things is limitless, not the air, not the water, not even the fertility of the land. Let us postulate another planet very similar to earth—but used up, Doctor, used up. There are men on this planet as there are men here, but somewhat more advanced technologically. Like many men, they are selfish and self-seeking, and they want the earth. But they want the earth without its human population. They need the earth for their own purposes. I see you doubt me.”

“The notion is certainly ingenious.”

“And from that you conclude that madmen are ingenious. Let me go on with my premise, and since you have assured me that I am not schizophrenic, you can ponder over the precise quality of my madness.”

“By all means,” Blausman agreed.

“They could attack the earth, but that would mean grave losses and even the possibility of defeat—no matter how small that possibility is. So some time ago, they hit upon another plan. They would train men for a particular profession, train them very well indeed, and then they would bring these men to earth, put them into positions of great power, and then induce a conditioned amnesia. Thus, these men would know what they had to do, what they were trained to do, yet be without the knowledge of why they do what they must do.”

“Absolutely fascinating,” Blausman said. “And in your case, the amnesia broke.”

“I think it is a limited thing in every case. A time comes when we remember, but more clearly than I remembered. We know our profession, and in time we remember why we have been trained to this profession.”

“And your profession?” Blausman asked.

“Of course, we are exterminators. I thought you understood that from the dream. So, Doctor, you would say I am cured, would you not?”

“Ah—there you have me.” Blausman smiled.

“You don’t believe me? You really don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know. What are your intentions, General? Are you going to kill me?”

“Why on earth should I kill you?”

“You defined your profession.”

“One small, overweight New York psychiatrist? Come, come, Dr. Blausman—you have your own delusions of grandeur. I am an exterminator, not a murderer.”

“But since you have told me what you are—”

Now it was the General’s turn to smile. “My dear Dr. Blausman, what will you do? Will you take my story to the mayor, the governor, the President—the FBI, the press? How long would you maintain your professional status? Would you tell a story about little green men, about flying saucers? No, there is no need to kill you, Doctor. How inconvenient, how embarrassing that would be!” He rose to leave.

“This does not negate your bill,” Blausman said. He could think of nothing else to say.

“Of course not. Send it to me in Washington.”

“And just for my own parting shot, I don’t believe one damn word you’ve said.”

“Precisely, Doctor.”

The General left and the doctor pulled himself together before he strode into the outer office and snapped at Miss Kanter: “Get his history and put it in the files. He won’t come back.”

“Really? Evelyn Bender just called and said she can have the survey by Wednesday.”

“Tell her to tear it up, and send her a check. Cancel the rest of my appointments today. I’m going home.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“No, Miss Kanter—not one damn thing. Everything is precisely the way it has always been.”