Old Dog

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Copyright © 1993 and 2013 by Katherine R. Chandler. All rights reserved.

  Publication History

  ebook: 2013

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1993

  Bacon and Freeman, Publishers

  Deer Lake, Pennsylvania

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead.

  All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.

  Certain Perry Countians are mentioned in this book or appear in minor roles. The author appreciates their willingness to be included. Their presence lends realism to the tale.

  Chapter 1

  The doctor looked his age. At seventy his well-barbered jowls rounded his features but did not disguise the bag of eyes or sag of skin beneath a once formidable jaw. Comfortable self-indulgence and good living had thickened him into a jovial Saint Nicholas, whose eyes could twinkle and crease with the pleasures of life.

  His patient was a decade younger, with ropy-muscled arms and lean legs. His long dour features resembled those of actor Sam Elliot, and his thickly salt and peppered hair hung to his shoulders, as the movie star's often did.

  The overweight physician was in good health. His tough and wiry patient was dying.

  They were friends—had been since the Korean fighting forty years past—and, despite his years in medicine with countless other patients, Doctor Phil Klein could never lose the memory of those first meetings. They had been young and strong then, with the world waiting . . . if they could survive the killing grounds north of the Pusan perimeter.

  In 1951, MASH units had not become popularized on film and in television. Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals practiced medicine as close to the front lines as possible. MASH doctors fought to save lives and limbs. Their surgery was necessarily fast and dirty—patch up whatever was life threatening and evacuate the patients to a distant hospital where time and equipment to finesse were available. Or, sew 'em up, shoot 'em full of penicillin, and hustle them back to their units. The first time they met, Sergeant "Dog" Carlisle was one of those destined to return to his combat outfit.

  Captain Phil Klein could be annoyed by patients like Sergeant Carlisle. Even in the damp sweat of shock and pain, soldiers like Carlisle urged the surgeon to hurry so they could get back to their outfits.

  Most wounded prayed and occasionally pleaded for evacuation—to be finally and officially free of the horrors of infantry war. Their hunger was normal (who would not want to be out of it?) and Doctor Klein could empathize.

  The ones eager to get back into combat were harder to appreciate, but Doc Klein tried because understanding might help make the slaughter and maiming a hint more tolerable.

  Something sharp had sliced along Sergeant Carlisle's ribs. It had cut deep, scraping bone before parting some of the latissimus muscle under the left arm. It was a long gash, perhaps nine inches, and as clean as if done with a straight razor. The wound bled copiously until Klein's sutures closed its gaping mouth. Not life threatening or genuinely crippling, but the Sergeant would still be laid up nearly a month before the muscle was sufficiently reknit for physical exertion.

  Klein had said, "Carlisle, huh? Named after the writer or the town in Pennsylvania?" If he had considered, Captain Klein might not have suggested that an army infantry noncom would be conversant with the noted Thomas Carlyle, a Victorian author included in literary canon.

  The Sergeant's breath hissed a little as Klein drew a suture. "Thomas isn't a relative, but I am from Perry County, a little north of the city of Carlisle. I never heard that we were related there either."

  The doctor had a conversational handle. "Well, well, neighbor. I'm from Harrisburg. I've worked on a lot of Perry County hoop polers."

  "What's your name again, Doc?"

  "Klein, Philip, no middle initial. I'm with Harrisburg Hospital." The doctor snipped the last stitch and sat back to examine his work.

  "Can't recall the name, sir."

  "Well, keep me in mind after you're home. I'm in the book. Never can tell when someone'll fall off a thresher or get kicked by a steer and need a surgeon with the golden touch."

  "Everybody in Perry County isn't a farmer, Captain." The sergeant was quick with his defense.

  Klein grinned disarmingly, then stuck in another barb. "Of course not Sarge, but since the CCC and the WPA closed down, there isn't much going on up in them-thar-hills."

  The sergeant attempted to sit up, but Klein laid on a restraining hand. "Just stay down, neighbor. You've lost a lot of blood, and plasma isn't quite the same. You'll probably be a little woozy. The orderlies will get you cleaned up and into a comfortable sack. A pain pill will put you to sleep, and in the morning we'll evacuate you back to Japan for a few weeks."

  Carlisle said, "Oh hell," and again moved to sit up.

  "Damn it, Sergeant, stay down."

  "Captain, I've got to get back to my platoon. You don't understand. There's no lieutenant, and I don't have a noncom who's been in the army a full year."

  "No, Sarge, you don't understand. You won't lift that arm for at least a week, and it won't be fit to use for more weeks. You are out of it, and that's that!" Doc Klein had learned that being decisive and in charge did best with military people.

  For a long moment the sergeant stayed rigid under Klein's hand. Then he relaxed. His voice was resigned. "OK, Doc, this is your outfit."

  Suspicious of the swift capitulation, Klein called an orderly. "Get the patient cleaned up. He smells like a goat. Take his clothing; leave only his personals. He'll get reissued in Japan."

  Carlisle said, "Damn it, leave my boots. I can't sleep without knowing where my boots are."

  Klein sighed. "Leave the boots."

  "I keep my personals in my boot. I don't want my wallet packed away somewhere."

  "Your gear will be in your boots, Sarge." The orderly had learned not to sweat the small stuff. Line soldiers could be weird. They could get pissed over nothing, and it paid to give them a little slack when you could.

  No other casualties were waiting so Klein took extra moments. He flipped through the Sergeant's thin medical record. Intrigued, he said, "Dog Carlisle? Your first name is Dog?" He leaned across to read Carlisle's identification tag.

  "Says here your name is Adam B. Carlisle."

  "Well, everybody calls me Dog, Captain. So that's what I go by."

  "Adam sounds a hell of a lot better than Dog."

  "I like Dog."

  Klein slapped the metal form holder closed and wedged it between his patient's calves. He looked closely at Carlisle's worn and muddied combat boots. "If it were me, I'd be glad to get rid of those rotten old boots and get new ones."

  "They're just broken in, Captain. New boots are hell up on the line."

  "Well, you won't have to worry about that for a while."

  Klein watched the orderlies ease his patient onto a stretcher.

  As they started out he added, "Dog. What a hell of a nickname. You hoop polers have strange ideas. I know a Bung, a Tater, and
a Crunch from up there. There's probably something in the Perry County well water that affects you all."

  Klein grinned to himself, but Dog Carlisle wasn't done quite yet.

  "There's an old Perry saying you ought to keep in mind, Captain. It goes, 'If Perry County didn't have sewers, Harrisburg couldn't draw their rations.'"

  The screened doors swung closed behind the litter bearers.

  Sergeant Carlisle said, "I've got a jeep driver waiting out here. Give me a minute to send him home, OK?"

  "Sure, Sarge. What's his name?"

  "Corporal Cole."

  They found Cole in the mess hall and brought him, sandwich in hand.

  "Geez, Dog. This outfit eats like kings. Move over and I'll stay here with you."

  Carlisle motioned the ward boys away. "What I've got to tell Corporal Cole is classified. It'll only take a minute." The sergeant spoke softly to the corporal, who nodded repeated understanding.

  They clasped hands, and the sergeant warned, "Don't screw up, Cole."

  "No sweat, Sarge. Take care of yourself." He saluted with his sandwich and departed.

  Cleaned up and fed well, with his wounds bandaged and a restrainer from elbow to waist so that he could not lift his arm too high, Sergeant Dog Carlisle was eased between sheets and given the prescribed pain pill. His boots with his wallet and watch stuffed in were aligned militarily beneath his cot. The medical record was hung from the foot of the bunk, and the ward boys attended to other duties.

  Ten minutes later, Dog sat up. He shook his head attempting to clear the cobwebs of sedative and blood loss. Using only his good arm, he fumbled into his boots and hung his wallet from the cotton drawstring of his hospital pajamas.

  "You supposed to be up?" The soldier in the next cot was concerned.

  "Yeah, I've just got a gash along the ribs. I'm just going to the latrine." Dog worked at his watchband.

  "Don't use the commode on the end. The seat's cracked, and it'll pinch like a lobster."

  "Thanks. War is hell, isn't it?"

  "I like it better today than yesterday?"

  "Know what you mean. Go to sleep. I'll be right back."

  Dog wove an unsure way down the bunk line. He eased quietly through the ward door and headed for the screened-off patients' latrine.

  Corporal Cole was waiting as directed.

  "Where in hell have you been, Dog? I've hung around here so long people are looking at me funny."

  "Where's the jeep?"

  "About a hundred yards through here." Cole led the way.

  Dog dropped into the passenger seat. "Let's go." He slumped deep, wedging his knees against the dash.

  "I'm going to sleep. They gave me a knock-out pill, and I'm low on blood, so if I start to fall out grab me. Wake me when we get there."

  "OK, Sarge. Cripes, I hope I don't get my butt in a sling over this. You're AWOL now, you know."

  "Who cares? Get driving."

  Battalion supply found Sergeant Carlisle's duffel bag. He got out clean fatigues and drew a steel helmet. The company armorer would still have his Ml rifle and belted forty-five pistol.

  "Hey, Dog, you're supposed to be carrying a carbine. Not that I give a s---, but I'm supposed to account for these guns."

  "If I see the carbine around, I'll send it back. Might as well throw rocks as shoot with a carbine."

  The armorer was disdainful. "You'll hit more with a carbine than this damned pistol. Where'd you get this, anyway? It isn't on our records.

  "It just showed up. I'll will it to you."

  The Sergeant Major was waiting.

  "Glad you're back, Dog. You didn't look so good going out."

  The Sergeant Major studied Dog more carefully. "You still look like hell. You all clear with the medics?"

  "I'm here, Top. I just bled a lot." A strategic shift of subject. "Sounds quiet up front."

  "Been quiet, but there's a lot of stirring going on. Something's brewing."

  "I need a lift to company."

  "Sit down a while. Your CO is coming back, and the Colonel wants to see you."

  "I'll sack out in supply, Sarge. I can use the sleep. Call me when I'm needed."

  They were not formal. The Captain said, "I need a lieutenant, Dog. You are it. Don't give me a lot of bull about not wanting to be an officer. I haven't got time for it."

  The Battalion Commander said, "You'll do a good job, Lieutenant Carlisle."

  Dog said, "I'm not sure . . . "

  The Sergeant Major said, "Shut up, Dog, and raise your right hand for the oath."

  Captain Phil Klein was notified that his patient was gone.

  "Gone? Hell, he can't be far. He got his pill, didn't he? Then he's asleep somewhere around here."

  "We figure his jeep driver waited for him, sir. The patient next to Carlisle said we no more than walked out when he put his boots on and left. Said he was going to the latrine. Hell, he'd just been there. Anyway, he never came back.

  "He's gone to his outfit, Captain."

  Klein knew the orderly was right.

  "Have the duty officer call his unit. Have Carlisle picked up and brought back. Make them understand he is not fit for duty. God, what next?" Doctor Phil Klein was genuinely exasperated.

  "Sergeant Major Graff here, Sir? I am returning your duty officer's call concerning a Sergeant Adam B. Carlisle?

  "Yes, Sir. I have personally checked our battalion roster, and we have no enlisted or noncommissioned officers named Carlisle.

  "Yes, Sir. I am one hundred percent positive that no Sergeant Carlisle is assigned to this organization or is serving here unassigned.

  "Thank you, Sir. You are right that we cannot have patients unaccounted for. I hope you find your man."

  The Sergeant Major hung up, satisfied that he would not be called again. Both MASH and battalion had other problems to handle.

  The Sergeant Major had not lied. He never did. Now if MASH had asked about a Lieutenant Carlisle, the answers would have been different, but the medics would still have struck out. Old Dog was back on the line and doing his job. Sometimes the medics forgot that their duty was to support the infantry, not to ship every flesh wound back to the States.

  Chapter 2

  Vicious combat burdened Klein's MASH unit. As fighting edged north, the hospital moved, then traveled far with the Allied advance up the peninsula. AWOL patients were reported and forgotten. New emergencies appeared, were dealt with and, like Sergeant Dog Carlisle, virtually forgotten.

  Heat of summer sloughed into fall, and winter cold bit its first warnings. Major Phil Klein's Korean tour was winding down. A replacement surgeon was en route. When he reappeared, Klein would pack a few belongings and depart. Hammered by too many tension-packed surgeries, numbed and disgusted by the seemingly endless streams of torn young men, Klein was more than ready to go home. As powerfully as any other battered combat veteran, Doc Klein wanted to see the last of Korea.

  To the north, a bitter fire fight exploded. American artillery responded, shaking the MASH tents and jarring mental concentration. Fighters were seen diving on not-too-distant targets, and a pair rushed close overhead, their thunder shattering nerves and leaving a wake of curses and racing hearts.

  Casualties began as a trickle and, as usual, grew quickly into a flood. MASH was the first stop behind the lines. Helicopters and jeeps delivered. Ambulances and helicopters moved the treated further rearward.

  Wounded and broken bodies were identified, tagged, and hastily diagnosed. Doctors stayed in place and new patients were trundled to the hastily-sterilized medical tables. The surgeons treated wounds to stop bleeding, to stabilize condition, and to prevent death. They barely examined faces, much less the feelings of those they worked over. There was no time. Other sufferers waited and real hospitals, beyond the rush of outbound artillery, would observe the niceties of the doctor/patient relationship.

  A nurse pointed to an angry-appearing hole in a lean patient's chest. "Bullet went in here." Nurse and surgical tech ro
lled the unresisting casualty onto his side. "And came out there." A wrist-sized exit wound seeped a little blood.

  "The wound isn't sucking."

  "Isn't bleeding much either. May not have nicked a lung."

  "Blew some of the scapula out the back."

  "Nothing big seems to be bleeding."

  "Lucky man."

  "Probably." Klein looked for further damage. On the patient's left side a long scar, fairly recent, showed crude and imaginative stitching and restitching.

  Klein said, "Wait a minute!" He looked close, studying the drawn, dirty, and unshaven features.

  Dog said, "Hey, Doc, it's been a while."

  "Adam Carlisle!" The name came surprisingly easy to Klein's memory. "What happened this time?"

  Though groggy from a medic's morphine, Carlisle answered clearly enough. "Got shot, Doc." His mouth quirked in amusement. "I'm pretty sure it was the enemy."

  "Well, you're lucky a second time. The bullet seems to have missed a lot of important pieces."

  "Good to hear. Feels like my whole side's gone numb."

  "It'll wear off and you'll wish it was back. You won't be sneaking off on us this time, Sergeant.

  "Lieutenant," the nurse corrected.

  "Lieutenant?" Klein's eyebrows rose. "You've gone down in the world, Dog."

  "They needed someone to draw fire, Doc."

  The nurse snickered and a surgical tech laughed openly.

  The team began work.

  Klein said, "We'll put you to sleep now, Carlisle. I probably won't see you again. You'll wake up in a ward and be hustled out of the zone from there. Come visit me in Harrisburg. I'll be home before you are."

  The doctor stayed the anesthesiologist's hand. "One more thing, Dog. What in hell happened to your first wound? I didn't do that sewing."

  Dog grunted in uncomfortable amusement. "Damned thing kept tearing open. Our medic got some sutures and resewed it a few times. Finally healed up all right."

  While his patient was prepped, Klein mused about it. Tougher than tripe, he thought. A lot of the Perry County people that ended up seeing him were like that. If a horse kicked their faces in, they wrapped a rag around whatever was broken and got back to work. Farmers were brought in carrying a piece of hand or some fingers, wondering if he could sew the parts back on—anxious to get back to bailing "before it rained on the hay."