Through The Dark Valley

      It was at St. Albans that I first noticed aberrant behavior among TB patients.

     “I can’t take much more of this shit,” my newfound friend repeated almost daily.

      Bill R.; a tiny, wiry Irishman developed symptoms in the fall. He left his submarine coughing and spitting blood. Both lungs were infected. (Many submariners met at St. Albans, as contagion thrives in a sub’s close quarters.) Observing Bill, I saw myself. We were Irish, we were Roman Catholics, and now we shared a common vulnerability—and perhaps a common fate.

      Bonding is commonplace among the sick. TB patients are particularly close because of their unique disease and uncertain futures. Shared time could be long or short, but it was always coalescing.

     Bill survived depth charges from Nazi destroyers, but couldn’t elude the bug consuming his lungs. He lived on Long Island and wanted to go home, but the navy couldn’t release him, not even on liberty.

    We were all irrational in those days. All of us smoked though we knew we shouldn’t, and we were always looking for alcohol. Time weighed heavily on us, and we searched for diversions. Tag football games blossomed outside the ward.

Wadded-up socks served as a ball.

     Why were we so mindless? Was it the disease or simply youthful ignorance and rebellion that caused this?  We were young and obviously denying our mortality. I think we were all afraid. I know I was, but I tried not to think of the possibility of dying. After all, I didn’t feel ill. Maybe it was all a giant mistake.

     Bill went AWOL on Christmas Eve. He called me a week later on New Year’s Eve. I heard background noises: glasses tinkling, laughter, and music. He was at a party and drunk. Our exchange was short but poignant.

     “Davey, you little fuck, Happy New Year. I’m having a drink for you. I wanted to wish you well and say good-bye.”

     “Bill, are you crazy? Come back. They can fix you up. You’re going to kill yourself.”

     “No, I can’t take it. The doctors can’t help. Don’t worry. Listen, I’ve got to go. Say an Ave for me, and I’ll say one for you. Take care of yourself. Happy New Year!”

     The line went dead. I never heard from Bill again. I was shaken!  I thought this God damned disease. It kills in more ways than one.