The Clackamas print., June 03, 1992, Image 5

Rhapsody
An Attitude Problem
by Brian Wilson
first place non-fiction
It was cold that day, about fourteen degrees F. Well, at least the wind wasn’t
blowing. I had just been told that if I didn’t improve my attitude I would be
kicked out of the Army. “That asshole ofa Lieutenant is fucking crazy if he thinks
he can kick the can, much less kick me out of the Army,” I thought. I didn’t much
care for the Army or Korea, but I made a commitment to be in for four years and
I was determined to see it through.
I wandered back out into the motor pool. My truck and Microwave Van were
ready to go, so I figured I would help some other guys to work on their rigs. The
Inspector General was coming through, and even though he wasn’t going to see
any of this, we had to bust our asses to clean everything to within an inch of it’s
life, just so we could take it all back into the field and mess it all up again. It was
typical Army bullshit, but what can you do?
I jerked my hand sever al times in an effort
toffee it, but it wasn ft coming loose*
I saw a couple of guys who were pulling all of the cable off of the winch on
the front of a 5/4 ton truck. I figured to give them a han<l and thereby attempt
to show my improved attitude by being a team player. I put my gloves on and
asked the guys if they needed help. They said “Hell yes.” They put me in front
of the winch and had me keep tension on the cable and make sure that it wound
on the drum in nice neat rows. One guy was in the cab of the truck, and he was
running the winch controls (and the heater), while the other guy was keeping the
cable from getting tangled.
I shouldn’t have been wearing gloves for this, but no one told me not to, and
I didn’t know any better. A winch cable is made up of many strands of wire that
are braided together. If one of the strands breaks, there are still many strands left
to give the cable it’s strength. But where that one strand breaks, it leaves a jagged
end that can cut or grab, almost like a fish hook. I should have used a rag to hold
that cable, but as I said, I didn’t know any better.
As we started to wind the cable back on the drum, it started to wind on
unevenly. I tried to lift the cable and move it back to where it should have been,
but it was winding on too fast Just as I was opening my mouth to tell the guy
in the truck to stop the winch, a strand of broken wire caught on the left ring
finger of my glove and started pulling it into the winch. I jerked my hand several
times in an effort to free it, but it wasn’t coming loose.
I was only standing three feet from the winch to begin with, so I didn’t have
much time. I yelled at the guy in the truck to stop the winch, but he had nodded
off in the warmth of the cab. He could have stopped the winch by turning off
the motor, or by stepping on the clutch pedal, or by disengagin g the winch drive
lever. He did manage to finally get the thing shut off Unfortunately, it wasn’t
in time to do me any good. '
As my hand got pulled into the winch, I grabbed my left hand with my right
in a last effort to get my hand loose from the cable. As my hand started to go
around the drum, I heard a tearing noise. I can only equate that sound to the
sound of a newspaper being torn in half. By the time they got the winch stopped,
both of my hands were pinned between the winch drum and the front of the
truck. I hadn’t felt any pain, so I didn’t know if I was hurt or not.
I pulled my right hand out and I flexed it. There was no pain or visible
injuries on that one. I pulled my left hand out and it was okay too. Almost. I
looked at my left hand and I saw that my left ring finger was nothing but bone.
There was no blood, no flesh, just this glaringly white bone. It was as bright and
white as any white I had ever seen. It was just about this time that I went into
shock and everything started to move in slow motion.
From the time I grabbed that cable until I looked at my hands, no more than
thirty seconds had passed. I remember my crew leader grabbing me and throwing
me into a truck that he couldn’t get started. Somebody else drove by in another
truck and he was flagged down and I was unceremoniously thrown into it. As
we started to pull away, someone threw the finger of the glove with what was left
of my finger in it through the open window.
The 1992 Clackamas
Collection
Editor Robert A. Hibberd
The dispensary was only minutes away. When we got there the door was
locked. Somebody started kicking the door and a Sergeant appeared and told
us to come back tomorrow because they were closed. Someone managed to
make the guy understand the severity of what had happened, and he reluc­
tantly let us in. It was 3:45 in the afternoon, and there should have been a
doctor on duty, but there wasn’t. This meant that I could not be treated in
Kimpo. I would have to be taken to the 121st Evacuation Hospital in Seoul
for treatment. I could not even be given anything for the pain.
11 wo uld take at leas t half an hour to get to Seo ul. It took them five minutes
just to get me loaded into the ambulance. It seems that the legs on the gurney
would not stay folded, so every time they tried to put me into the ambulance,
the legs would fall and prevent them from putting me in the ambulance. It took
six guys to lift me and the gurney into the ambulance.
At the 121st Evac, the officer in charge of the Emergency Room wouldn’t
let me in because I was too dirty. I had been working on trucks all morning
and I was covered in grease from head to toe. My platoon leader threatened
to kill the guy and I was finally admitted to the waiting area of the E.R. I was
asked to fill out a whole stack of forms, which I did. It only took me about
twenty minutes. Someone typed them up and brought them back for my sig­
nature. They spelled my father’s name wrong, so they had to retype all of the
forms.
After I signed the papers I was taken to the examining room and put on a
table. Someone came in and gave me shot for the pain. I wish it had had some
effect. After lying on that table for about twenty minutes, a sergeant came in,
took a look at my finger and told me it would have to be amputated. I just
looked at the guy and told him “No shit.”
He told me that it could be reattached, but because so much time had
elapsed since the accident combined with the fact that when they packed my
finger for transportation, they packed it in ice instead of saline solution and
had frozen it, the chances for a successful reattachment were practically zero.
Well, this j ust thrilled me to no end. I was taken to another floor for the nec-
rirn-i-r^~ 4J
to romovo xlx -fVaayrJ . w
gUl
I was led to a broom closet and handed a surgical gown. I was told that because
I was so greasy, I would not be allowed to change anywhere else because they
didn’t want to get anything dirty. By this time I was in so much pain that I
did what they wanted without too much complaining.
In the operating room, I was put on an operating table with my left arm
extended o u twar d. There was a tent-like device placed over my arm to conceal
the surgical procedure from me. The doctor gave me local anesthetic in my
hand and proceeded to remove the bone. In the corner of the O.R. the O.R.
attendant was looking at so me thing and making a lo t o f ooh and aah so unds.
I asked him what he was looking at He turned around and I saw he had a small
glass vial in his hand. He walked over to me an stuck it in my face and said “It’s
your finger, you wanna see it?” I told him no thanks. Finally the surgery was
over and I was taken to a ward.
I spent six days in that hospital, during which time I had no visitors. The
officers and N.C.O.s who were in charge of me should have come to see me at
least once, but they didn’t. You see, it seems that I had an attitude problem.
The Clackamas Print chose to allow the controversial
content of this Rhapsody insert to remain for the sake
of artistic integrity.