A Short Story by Ben E. Alexander
Staff Sergeant Benjamin Alexander Josephson leaned heavily back against the trunk of a small comphor tree on the outer edge of a small grove of trees and breathed a deep sigh of relief as he assessed the few wounds he had received and realized that they were all fairly superficial; then he sat surveying the bodies of the troops, enemy and ally alike, and the scars left on the surrounding landscape in the aftermath of the horrifying battle which had just ended and at the distant flat, green surface of the Ia Drang Valley beyond.
Amidst the quiescent calm and tomblike silence that always seems to follow violent conflict and, as the fear and horror which had engulfed the very fiber of his being during the bloody engagement began to wane, his mind drifted and he began to focus on the land itself.
Even through the carnage and remaining smoke plumes and few small scattered fires sparked by expended ordnance of both large and small arms fire he could not help but notice the underlying splendor of this war-torn nation. Far in the distance a high, ominously dark mass of stratocumulus clouds crept slowly across the horizon signaling the approach of a spring rainstorm.
Despite the war this was, he thought, a truly beautiful country and as he began to relax he leaned back further, closed his eyes, and turned his face slightly skyward to feel the sun on his skin. The warmth and natural resplendence of this place with its huge open skies and myriad varieties of vegetation could, despite the horrors of war, bring about feelings of peace, serenity, and even wonderment if one took advantage of the rare, fleeting, and precious moments the war allowed to truly appreciate its magnificence and diversity.
Perhaps it was the greenness of the place with shades of color running the entire spectrum from the faint tea-green tint of the elephant and cogon grasses to the deep rich viridian and hunter-green tones of iron-wood, oak, teak, mahogany, banyan, and comphor trees, which comprised the multi-canopied and limestone mountain forests that covered so much of this ancient and beautiful land that reminded him of his home in his native North Carolina.
The wide open deep-green tobacco, corn, and milo fields of the small farms spotted intermittently among the beautifully forested and grassy plains south of the Fontana Lake region near the base of the Great Smoky Mountain range by the low foothills covered in tamarack, red and black pines, and fraser and balsam fir trees and sharp, slate-colored, jagged peaks that wind a serpentine path to the northeast to blend with the magnificent Appalachians.
Then, as was always the case, his thoughts of home and the wondrous, rich green shades of the fertile farmlands of the surrounding Chilhowee Valley brought to his mind memories of the bright highlights of her eyes.
As his face was warmed by the last few rays of afternoon sun, which was nearing the end of its lugubrious journey across the wide Vietnamese sky and was preparing to set behind the jagged, grassy slopes of the Annamite Mountains to the west like a spotlight dimming and fading on cue from a stage on which had played out a bloody and horrible conflagration, visions of her began to come into focus in his mind’s eye.
The evening twilight gleaming through the soft, slightly curled tresses of hair the color of corn silk tumbling gently against the soft cream-colored flesh of her face and shoulders, her big ‘doe-like’ eyes with irises filled with dark shades of color, deep and mysterious, highlighted by magnificent harlequin-green flecks, like moonlight glistening on the tumultuous surface of an emerald sea. And her lips, full and turned slightly down at the corners, were exquisitely soft and had the subtle color of the small pink flower of the Mountain Laurel.
He remembered the last time they were together before he had shipped out. The tears, the hugs, the long walk in the forest, the feel of her mouth on his - tender, warm, and sensually moist and sweet like the first bite of a ripe Carolina Black Cherry and the feel of her body on his. The firm, round mounds of her breasts and the porcelain pallor of her pale flesh,` almost effervescent in its afterglow in the summer moonlight as they lay upon the thick, soft carpet of pine needles embracing after having made love beneath the tall, thick conifers. He remembered her scent, uniquely sweet, exotically feminine, and as erotically unforgettable as her lovemaking. It all seemed so long ago. A lifetime. An eternity spent in purgatory.
It was, he knew, these memories of her that had kept him alive through these past two years of this terrible war and the thought of getting back to her, like a light at the end of a long tunnel, beckoning him forward to the peace, warmth, and serenity which was her. And he knew that he would get back; that he would hold her in his arms again, walk with her through the meadows and forests as he had so many times before and share with her all that was in him, and all that would ever be. He glanced again at the carnage before him and reflected on how fortunate he had been to have come through so much. He was grateful for that, and grateful that he had been untouched by the war which had cost so many so dearly.
As he closed his eyes again he let his thoughts return to her and a slight, almost imperceptible smile curled the corners of his lips.
Julie Ann McPherson leaned forward and gently brushed back the hair from his forehead. Straight and black with gray flecks throughout and graying markedly at the temples, it was slightly longer than usual for lack of a haircut, but she thought it set off his features. She looked closely into his deep-set eyes and smiled. They were wizened and blue and reminded her of the vast blue evening skies of her childhood home in Montana, from the cornflower-blue of noontime to the azure of the twilight which faded into star studded sapphire-blue just after sunset.
She loved his eyes as she loved everything about him; his ruggedly handsome features, his silent introspective manner, his bravery. She loved the smile he showed and knew it was for her. It had been so long and during the times they were separated she thought of nothing other than his returning to her; of being at his side, holding him and feeling safe and warm in his strong embrace and sharing with him all that was in her and all that would ever be.
She would give herself to him gladly and completely, and she looked forward in ecstasy to the day when they would be married. They would share a small cottage near the forest and spend their evenings walking hand in hand through the moonlit groves, looking at the distant Rocky Mountains and then watch as the sun set to reveal the phosphorescent fullness of the moon and an aura of star shine known nowhere else in the world. Like two young lovers in a fairy tale, and they would stop to make love beneath the trees, the evening breezes cooling the perspiration on them, the last rays of sunlight glistening off their recumbent bodies as they lay embracing in the aftermath of their passion. It was her dream, as it had been since she first saw him. Her Ben…her brave, handsome, loving soldier... Ben.
With the gentility and care of a new mother tending to her first child, Julie adjusted the blankets covering him and sat back to watch him sleep. The soft, diffused, fluorescent light shining down upon him accentuated his features, giving him an almost angelic appearance like the faces she had seen in impressionist paintings of cherubs at the museum. Then she sat back watching him; never taking her eyes off him as he slept, and it seemed to her as though they were the only people in the entire world. Two people in love and alone in the universe. ‘My Ben,’ she thought.
She did not hear her name being called at first and when she did it seemed distant, like the disembodied voice heard by someone being awakened from a dream. And then it got clearer, bringing her out of the cocoon of her private thoughts and drawing her attention to the door, where stoic in a stiffly starched white uniform stood the night nurse.
“It’s time to go, Julie.â€
With a slight nod, Julie stood and leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Goodnight, my Ben, my love. I’ll see you tomorrow.†Her voice was almost a whisper. She smiled at him and, rising from her chair and gathering the robe she was wearing tightly around her, walked slowly toward the nurse. “I was just saying goodnight to my Ben,†she said to her.
Smiling as Julie walked past her, the nurse took her gently by the elbow and guided her slowly down the hall to the elevator bank and pushed the button to call for the car. Later, having seen the woman safely to her room on the floor below and helping her get into bed, she returned to the third floor where she saw the other night nurse sitting behind the desk at the nurse’s station, her uniform equally white and crisp.
“What’s up with that woman?†the nurse asked. “She’s been in there every night I’ve been on duty.â€
Joining the other woman behind the desk, the nurse began shuffling several papers and charts on the desktop. Then without looking at her co-worker the woman stopped what she was doing and leaned forward to put her hands on the high desktop before her. As she answered she stared down the hall she had just traversed and she seemed thoughtful, as if her mind were elsewhere and deep in thought, her demeanor almost trancelike. When she finally spoke her voice was soft and her tone seemed mournful, almost reverent.
“That’s right,†she said. “You’re new here; you haven’t heard the story. Well, the story I’ve been told was that he, I mean Josephson, was a war hero, you know, in Vietnam. He and another soldier were leading a group of South Vietnamese soldiers on a training exercise, teaching them how to move through the jungle and things like that, when they were attacked. They were greatly outnumbered and everyone he was with was killed. When they found him he was sitting next to a tree surrounded by the bodies of the enemy soldiers he had killed, and there were a lot of them. I’ve been told he killed nearly thirty of them by himself. He got the Medal of Honor they say.
“But when they found him, he was just like he is now, just sitting there leaning against a tree. He was just sitting there, not moving, not saying a word; kind of like he was asleep. They never found anything wrong with him; no wounds, no head injuries, nothing. He just leaned back and closed his eyes like he was taking a nap and he never moved again. He was just as you see him now. The doctors call it a chronic vegetative state. He’s been like that since nineteen sixty-eight.â€
The other woman, who had been sitting silently and listening intently, spoke quietly; almost to herself, like she was afraid of breaking the silence or the other woman’s reminenisence. “Oh my Lord...,†she said and whatever thought she had after that she did not express but merely sat and resumed listening intently.
"At first he was in a Veteran’s hospital until a few years after the war and then he was brought here. He’s been here ever since. Nearly forty-one years in that condition. I… I can’t even imagine it.â€
“Lord have mercy.†As the nurse spoke she turned to look at the room the Sergeant occupied. It was not a look of confusion or disbelief, and not even one of sympathy necessarily; rather a look of gentle understanding, a dignified look of empathy. It was the kind of look that is only ever seen on those who dedicate their lives to ministering to the sick and downtrodden; the sort of look only a nurse is capable of. Turning back carefully, as if she did not want to disrupt the mood of the place, she asked, “What about the woman?â€
Without changing expression, the woman shifted her weight and looked down at the desktop then continued in her gentle, subdued voice. “Julie. Well, when he first came here, I guess it was about thirty years ago now, she was his nurse. She cared for him much like we do now. But after a while she seemed to take a special interest in him. It was like she had fallen in love with him. And then it was obvious that she had. For fifteen or twenty years she ministered to him; and then he became her world. Her Ben, she called him, and not long after that she started talking about how they were getting married.
“Saddest thing I’ve ever heard or seen. She just lost all touch with reality and all she could talk about was how they loved each other and how their life together would be.â€
She turned her head to look at Josephson’s room. “They finally admitted her over ten years ago and all she does since is spend every waking hour in there, with him. Since it calms her and she doesn’t seem to cause anyone any trouble, and they don’t see any harm in it, the doctors let her.â€
The other nurse shifted her glance down the hall toward the elevator bank. “That poor thing. Isn’t there anything they can do?â€
The nurse’s question seemed to snap the woman out of her reverie and she looked down at the desk and started shuffling papers again. “After ten years? I don’t know. Personally I’m surprised all of us aren’t nuts the way we deal with these people day after day. It’s like taking care of the living dead!â€
As Julie lay on her bed in the semi-private room, without breaking the palpable silence of the ward which hung in the air like an early morning fog, she turned to look at the window at the end of the room, yet she didn’t see it. Only visions of Ben; his face as he looked down at her, and she experienced the warmth of his skin as he held her hand and walked with her through the green forest. She was grateful for him; for his smile, his quiet, gentle way, and for his love. She was used to dealing with the damaged, the blank, expressionless faces of the comatose. It was not easy work and work which not many could do. She was grateful that she could minister to these seemingly lost souls, and she was grateful that she had managed, through it all, to remain untouched by the arduous emotional demands of her job. With visions of Benjamin filling her thoughts she drifted silently to sleep.
Copyright ©2009 by Ben E. Alexander. All rights reserved.
Copyright - ©2008-2009 by Ben E. Alexander. All rights reserved.
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