Henry was halfway there by the time he realized where he was going. Home.
Not, of course, to Bloomington, but the next best thing within walking
distance, i.e., the 4077th, drew him like a magnet.
As I stated before, he was halfway there before he became somewhat aware of exactly where he was headed. At three-quarters of the journey, he finally stopped. He wasn't tired. It was more the fact that he wasn't tired that stopped him. The trip to and from the Evac hospital, where he, in retrospect, remembered being, was a jump by chopper, but a bit of a haul by bus or jeep. Nonetheless, he had seemed to traverse the distance in a remarkably short period of- - "Damn!" he mumbled ferociously, having lifted his wrist to examine the time, "Those guys must have stolen my watch, too!"
He sidled to the side of the road, and had perched himself on a fallen tree, sadly and silently rubbing at his naked wrist. A furrow crossed his brow, his mouth puckered downward in a puzzled grimace as he re-established his grip on the pulse point and pressed down in the usual manner.
He got up and kept walking, his eyes slightly widened as he concentrated on moving one leg tirelessly in front of the other, trying, with little avail, to stunt the realization that was encroaching upon him that he might not have, in fact, survived that plane crash.
As he concentrated on moving ahead, he watched the ground; the fact that the surrounding trees and rocks began to blur past was not first on his list to think on. He thought of getting home: "That is to say, /back./" he reminded himself, having tried to break his habit of thinking of the unit as his home in the past few. . . well, however long it's been since he got that confounded letter. Oddly enough, his thoughts trailed not back to his office and his liquor cabinet (though he yearned for a little something to loosen up his nerves), not to the Officer's Club or the Swamp or the Mess Tent or even to the friends who'd seemed to him to be more like family. As he walked, he thought of the O.R., and of having his hands wrist-deep into some kid's gut, scrounging for scraps of metal and drinking up all the blood---- err. Sucking the blood from the nurse. Err. Calling for suction from the nurse. Right; that's it.
The images of O.R. ran across his mind before he could stop them, and, shaken, he slowed to a halt on the center of the road, feeling, again, not tired, but something else. Drained. Thirsty. Hungry.
"Aha! Hunger, that's it." He told himself. He brought up to mind the last time that he ate. It was back at camp, before he'd left on this wild goose chase for a way home. The thought of army food sickened him now, as it seemed to Henry, as it had never done before. "It's very simple. Those wackos, whoever they were, rescued me from the plane, stole my watch, shipped me off to Ouijongbu, where I'm currently suffering mass hallucinations as a result of lack of nutrition."
Henry smiled to himself, proud of having found a simple solution to all of this. He halted once more in his tracks, pausing as he smelled something wonderful cooking. He was, oddly enough, getting somewhat near camp, and had reached the vicinity of a small batch of huts off the roadside to the left. It was most definitely from this direction that he smelled it. No quease-inducing army fare, no sirree, but a real meal, something reminiscent of Illinois kitchens and late Sunday suppers with just him and Lorraine, before the kids were born. The actual contents of the meal he wasn't able to identify. But he couldn't stop his footsteps from leading him off into the field in the direction of the small village cluster.
~
As I stated before, he was halfway there before he became somewhat aware of exactly where he was headed. At three-quarters of the journey, he finally stopped. He wasn't tired. It was more the fact that he wasn't tired that stopped him. The trip to and from the Evac hospital, where he, in retrospect, remembered being, was a jump by chopper, but a bit of a haul by bus or jeep. Nonetheless, he had seemed to traverse the distance in a remarkably short period of- - "Damn!" he mumbled ferociously, having lifted his wrist to examine the time, "Those guys must have stolen my watch, too!"
He sidled to the side of the road, and had perched himself on a fallen tree, sadly and silently rubbing at his naked wrist. A furrow crossed his brow, his mouth puckered downward in a puzzled grimace as he re-established his grip on the pulse point and pressed down in the usual manner.
He got up and kept walking, his eyes slightly widened as he concentrated on moving one leg tirelessly in front of the other, trying, with little avail, to stunt the realization that was encroaching upon him that he might not have, in fact, survived that plane crash.
As he concentrated on moving ahead, he watched the ground; the fact that the surrounding trees and rocks began to blur past was not first on his list to think on. He thought of getting home: "That is to say, /back./" he reminded himself, having tried to break his habit of thinking of the unit as his home in the past few. . . well, however long it's been since he got that confounded letter. Oddly enough, his thoughts trailed not back to his office and his liquor cabinet (though he yearned for a little something to loosen up his nerves), not to the Officer's Club or the Swamp or the Mess Tent or even to the friends who'd seemed to him to be more like family. As he walked, he thought of the O.R., and of having his hands wrist-deep into some kid's gut, scrounging for scraps of metal and drinking up all the blood---- err. Sucking the blood from the nurse. Err. Calling for suction from the nurse. Right; that's it.
The images of O.R. ran across his mind before he could stop them, and, shaken, he slowed to a halt on the center of the road, feeling, again, not tired, but something else. Drained. Thirsty. Hungry.
"Aha! Hunger, that's it." He told himself. He brought up to mind the last time that he ate. It was back at camp, before he'd left on this wild goose chase for a way home. The thought of army food sickened him now, as it seemed to Henry, as it had never done before. "It's very simple. Those wackos, whoever they were, rescued me from the plane, stole my watch, shipped me off to Ouijongbu, where I'm currently suffering mass hallucinations as a result of lack of nutrition."
Henry smiled to himself, proud of having found a simple solution to all of this. He halted once more in his tracks, pausing as he smelled something wonderful cooking. He was, oddly enough, getting somewhat near camp, and had reached the vicinity of a small batch of huts off the roadside to the left. It was most definitely from this direction that he smelled it. No quease-inducing army fare, no sirree, but a real meal, something reminiscent of Illinois kitchens and late Sunday suppers with just him and Lorraine, before the kids were born. The actual contents of the meal he wasn't able to identify. But he couldn't stop his footsteps from leading him off into the field in the direction of the small village cluster.
~