Ulysses in Rags

Another story about Stuart Dulley

Hello everyone! In going through my drives I discovered another chapter in the wartime life of Stuart Dulley, a hapless character I introduced in Quality Time Pieces and then followed in two more stories, Rags Goes to Lunga and Rags the Hero. This was the fourth of five stories, the last one I completed (the final one, First Degree Mason, is still in a state of dishabille and will require quite a bit more work).

Until then, here’s number four. Hope you enjoy.

I.

Stuart Dulley was wounded in the leg on Guadalcanal and spent some months in an Australian hospital. He hoped to be shipped stateside, but the Marines had other ideas. While Stuart was in the hospital the Marines had invaded several more islands and had had many, many casualties. Every available man was needed, especially those with combat experience.

He stayed in the First Marine Division but was reassigned to D/3/5––Dog Company, Third Battalion, Fifth Regiment. His old unit was H/1/7, a completely different outfit. The reasons for this new assignation were never given. It didn’t really bother him. The men in H/1/7 had never been all that friendly toward him. In fact, he barely remembered any of their names.

The Third Battalion was stationed on Pavuvu, a narrow coral island populated with huge rats, giant sand crabs, rotting coconuts and so many Marines that Stuart had to stand in line for everything. The heads, the showers, chow, the movies were all packed to the rafters with tough young faces in new uniforms.

Most of the men were replacements who had never seen combat. They swaggered around the base talking tough in an attempt to defy their inner terror at what lay ahead. The combat veterans sequestered themselves and did not mix except to harass the new men and assign them unpleasant duties like cleaning the heads or killing land crabs around the officers’ tents. They had no idea Stuart was a Guadalcanal veteran who had been wounded in combat, and Stuart did not tell them. When they ordered him to do something he did it without complaint.

After a few weeks, all the Marines on the island were herded onto troopships and ferried two thousand miles across the Pacific to a terrible little island near the Philippines the Japanese had occupied and, unbeknownst to the Americans, fortified since 1915. Stuart’s ship was an ancient cargo vessel hastily converted to carry men. It was crowded and smelled strongly of diesel fuel, even on the topside deck. Each day was hotter than the last, the cavernous hold like a giant oven. Sanitation was a problem, and the men stank from a lack of bathing.

Stuart spent as much time as he could on deck. He especially enjoyed standing on what the sailors called the fantail, which was a sort of overhang that jutted over the ship's propellers. He liked to lean on the rail and watch the churning wake, amazed at the variety of blues and greens he could see. At night it was even better, the wake turning a luminous green. On the ship to Guadalcanal two years before a sailor had told him the glow was created by tiny creatures.

But the fantail was often crowded with sailors and Marines, so Stuart usually was belowdecks sweating it out with his smelly fellow passengers. Several of the men were seasick, adding the rank odor of vomit to the general stench.

As bad as the trip was, the invasion was worse. From the moment Stuart’s Amtrack slid out of the belly of the LST into the churning water that surrounded the island, Peleliu eclipsed the worst horrors of Guadalcanal by leaps and bounds. Heavy artillery, mortars, and machine gun fire raked the beach, killing the invaders like a fat man smashing ladybugs on a windowsill.

Stuart watched a squad of Marines tumble out of an Amtrack only to be immediately blasted in half by Japanese anti-aircraft cannon, bloody chunks of their bodies seeming to float in red vapor before dropping into the surf like bait. Stuart lay face-down on the beach, his body shaking, his face twitching. He turned his head and watched a Corpsman kneeling over a wounded man. An explosion blew the two of them into a pulp of mud and viscera.

His memory cut in and out like a broken film. For example, he had no memory of how he made it off that terrible beach. One moment he was cowering in the sand and the next he squatted among a grove of stumps that had been a jungle before bullets and shells had stripped the trees of branches and leaves, bullets snapping over his head. His body quaked like he was freezing even though the temperature was well over a hundred degrees.

The hours ran together in a horror of heat and violence, sergeants shouting orders, men screaming and dying, blood and sweat and smoke. Nobody saw any Japanese because they did their shooting from caves and camouflaged emplacements. Stuart felt like they were fighting the island itself, horribly animated, wanting only to kill the invaders.

Night came on with tropic suddenness and in the pitch dark the men were ordered to dig in, an impossible task because the coral was like cement. Instead, they hunkered in the shell holes blasted into the rock by the intense naval bombardment.

During the night Japanese infiltrated some of the foxholes, attacking the Marines with knives and bayonets. The men screamed and cried as they died. After that nobody slept. The ordeal took on a hellish eternal quality, the daylight hours filled with unspeakable violence, the black night menaced by invisible terror.

Stuart managed to avoid being killed or dismembered for almost a week until the morning he crawled out of a jagged coral hole with the intention of relieving himself in a nearby gully when a Japanese machine gun opened up on him. He lay there clutching his helmet in stark terror as the bullets blasted the white coral around his head, the razor-sharp shards flaying his exposed skin. They kept firing for what seemed an impossibly long time. Without knowing it, Stuart began to scream, then voided his bladder while machine gun pinned him down. He was too terrified to be embarrassed. A bullet tore into his shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer. Another hit his bicep and he blacked out, almost relieved that he would soon be dead.

He came to on a stretcher, his entire body feeling like it was being crushed by an enormous weight. A Corpsman leaned over him and jabbed his good arm with a morphine syrette. The pain retreated.

In opiate twilight Stuart was carried to the beach and put on a launch that lurched and bucked in the choppy water. He looked up and saw the giant red cross on the side of the hospital ship. Again, thought, remembering Guadalcanal.

Stuart spent weeks in a troubled morphine coma, bobbing through a terror dream of Peleliu where he wandered over jagged ridges that reeked of death and excrement, white dust spattered with blood and viscera, hunted by an omnipresent enemy he never saw. Dream explosions ripped Stuart into pieces, his severed arms and legs floating just out of reach as he screamed.

He almost lost his arm, but the surgeons used tendons and other pieces from elsewhere on his body to save it over the course of several operations. There was fever and terrible pain. Weeks turned into months. They shipped him to a hospital in Honolulu, but he wasn't aware of much until the morning he awoke in a hospital bed. It was like being reborn. He opened his eyes and saw the room filled with golden sunlight, the sea breeze blowing through palm trees outside the open windows.

He tried to get up but couldn’t move his arms. He called for a nurse, his voice a ragged croak. She came in, all bustle and efficiency in her stiff white apron and hat.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, her tone reproachful as though she had caught him masturbating. “We had to restrain you. You were screaming and clawing at the bandages. Can’t have you ripping out your sutures.”

The Navy nurses were all sexless and unpleasant, as though being bitchy would somehow abet the healing process. Maybe it did, because after a few days of their treatment the idea of staying in that hospital any longer than necessary became repugnant.

Still, he spent two months in Hawaii. He had another surgery, and then another. Each was followed by a period of morphine twilight that gradually faded. There was no more born-again feeling when he came too, just a deep weariness.

One day Stuart was bundled onto a transport plane and flown to an overcrowded rehabilitation center in Corpus Christi where a single orthopedic surgeon oversaw the care of two hundred wounded Marines. The Pacific was hell on limbs, leaving thousands of men handless, legless, footless, armless, or some combination thereof. Stuart was one of the lucky few who still had all his extremities, though his right arm hung withered and nerveless in a sling.

He'd joined the Marines before the war had even started and was astounded by the variety of tiny islands that the guys in his ward had invaded. Some, like Iwo Jima and Tarawa, were famous, but others had whimsical names sounded made-up. Guam. Angaur. Eniwetok. Kwajalein.

The days passed pleasantly enough. The men sat around on the screen porch drinking coffee and playing cards, the handless men practicing with their hooks, legless men pushing wheelchairs or trying out peg-legs and walkers.

Stuart’s therapy was painful and humiliating. His right arm, never muscular, had been reduced to ridiculous dimensions, the tiny bicep crossed with shiny red scar tissue and stitches that made him look like a badly sewn doll. Every day he joined the other arm cases for morning exercise as they strapped themselves to various machines designed to improve flexibility and range of motion. It was excruciating, but he kept at it. Gradually he got to the point where it was only mildly painful. The harried doctor implied this was probably as good as it was going to get.

Nights were another story. Nights were the worst. In the darkness it became abundantly clear that for these men the war was not over and would never be over. Memories of violence and panic and horror and disgust came back with more force than the experiences themselves. The darkened ward was filled with the terrified shouts and sobs and screams of men cornered by nightmares.

Thus it was only natural that everyone stayed up as late as he could. The men talked and played poker and read by flashlight. Liquor was strictly forbidden, but for Marine Corps combat veterans it was no big thing to get the orderlies to look the other way when visitors fetched in bottles of whisky, cases of beer, and jugs of cheap red wine. Even so, there was never enough to go around, never enough to guarantee every man who needed it would find oblivion because every man in the ward needed all he could get, every night.

At night the dead would not stay dead.

II.

In January 1946, Corporal Stuart Dulley was discharged from the United States Marine Corps where he had served since September 1940. He had two campaign ribbons, two Purple Hearts, and a Silver Star for conspicuous gallantry on Guadalcanal. It was supposed to have been a Navy Cross but was downgraded because somebody along the chain had complained. His arm had healed as much as it was going to, which wasn’t much.

The other men at the hospital all seemed to be aching to get back to something. Wives, jobs, hometowns. Stuart’s parents had died in an auto accident while he was in high school, and the aunt with whom he lived afterward had died of cancer during the war. He had no brothers or sisters, no cousins. The town he had grown up in held no allure. He changed out of his uniform and packed it away into a carton. He had nowhere to send it, so he left it under his bed.

In the Corpus Christi bus station, he purchased a ticket to San Francisco for no particular reason. He climbed aboard the bus as soon as the driver opened the door. The bus was empty, so he had his pick. He settled into one of the comfortable seats in the center of the bus.

The bus got underway just as the sun was going down. Stuart pressed his face to the glass and watched the darkening country roll past his window. In the pocket of the new suit jacket, he had a voucher for eighteen months of back pay accrued during his hospital stay. At his feet was a new valise he had bought at the Corpus Christie Kresge, along with three pairs of underwear and two pairs of socks, a toothbrush, a comb. That was the extent of his belongings. He wished he had remembered to buy a book. He had never been much of a reader, even in the hospital, but he figured he may as well start. Reading would be a good habit.

They passed through towns with names almost as strange of those of the islands. Boerne. Ozona. Ysleta. He fell asleep, his head rocking softly with the motion.

The sun was bright on his face. He awoke, the tendrils of the dream vanishing as he opened his gummy eyes. The bus was empty, the doors open. Stuart stretched. His shoulder had a deep ache and his hand felt numb. He stood up and made his way down the aisle. The driver stood in the shade of the bus smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a steel thermos cup, a different man than before.

“Excuse me,” said Stuart, feeling awkward. “I just got off this bus.”

“I saw that,” said the driver, his voice friendly, though not at all deferential. “I guess that makes you my passenger.”

Stuart did not know what to say to this, so he stood there. His brain seemed foggy. The driver smiled. “You were asleep when we changed drivers in Pecos. I guess you just woke up?”

Stuart nodded.

“I’m on duty until Flag.” He gestured at a building across a parking lot. The sign said WHITE CAFE. “This is the breakfast stop.”

“Is there a bathroom?” asked Stuart.

“No,” said the driver. “You have to piss in the alley.” He saw the confused look on Stuart’s face and brayed. “Just joshing you, fella. Yes, there’s a bathroom. Hot water and everything.” He checked his watch. “You only have about twenty minutes, though.”

“What town is this?” asked Stuart.

The driver pointed to a sign on the storefront next to the cafe. GALLUP HARDWARE.

“Like I say, twenty minutes. Bus leaves at nine sharp.”

Stuart nodded and crossed the street. He looked back at the driver, still smoking and watching him. The driver waved. Stuart waved back just as a pickup truck swerved around him, horn blaring.

“Dumbass!” yelled a man sitting in the truck bed.

Stuart trotted the rest of the way and pulled open the heavy glass door, almost bumping into a dark-haired waitress holding a pot of coffee in each hand. “Where are the restrooms?” Stuart asked.

“Customers only,” she said without looking at him.

A second waitress, shorter and with red hair, pointed with her chin. “In back there.” She shot a glare at the other waitress. “Don’t mind her. She’s a grump.”

Stuart made his way through the crowded cafe to the back. A tall man and a short man stood outside the restroom door. Stuart wasn’t sure if they were waiting. Stuart reached for the doorknob.

“Not so fast, pal,” said the shorter man.

“Sorry,” said Stuart. “I didn’t know this was a line.”

The short man sneered. “What the hell’s it look like?” Without taking his eyes off Stuart, he pounded the door with his fist. “Jesus buddy! You having a fucking baby in there?”

There was a sound of a toilet flushing and the door flew open. An enormous man stood, his hands wet and his face mottled with fury. He glared down at Stuart. “What is your goddamned problem?” he said, his voice low and savage. “I got fucking gut shot in Normandy. You got a fucking problem with that?”

Without waiting for an answer the man shoved Stuart out of his way. The shorter man grinned and slipped into the restroom, locking the door behind him. Stuart got in line behind the taller man. They stood in silence as they waited for the short man to come out. After a long, long time Stuart heard the toilet flush. The short man still did not come out. Then, with the suddenness of a gun shot, he yanked open the door and jumped into the narrow hallway. Stuart was startled and leapt back.

“Haw!” the short man yelled at him, then pretended to menace his fist in Stuart’s face. He dropped his hand and laughed. “Jesus, buddy. Lighten up. War’s over.”

The taller man went in and only took a minute before he was done. He looked at the floor as he came out. “All yours,“ he mumbled.

Stuart stepped in and flipped on the light, closing the door behind him. He pushed the small bolt into its hasp and undid his fly with his numb right hand. It as so awkward and weak, yet was still more dexterous than his clumsy left.

He stood there in front of the toilet, unable to piss. He needed to, but it would not come out. He could not relax. He flipped the light off with his left hand and took a deep breath.

Relax, he whispered. Relax. At long last, he felt the trickle of urine begin, tentative at first and then a strong stream. He closed his eyes, then opened them. The blackness was the same open or closed. Somebody jiggled the doorknob. He jumped. He heard the spatter of urine on the toilet back. Somehow he’d gotten off-center.

He slapped at the light switch and was again startled by his panicked reflection in the dirty restroom mirror. He looked down. He had pissed all over the back of the toilet, on the seat, on the floor. He decided to leave it. Nobody would know who had done it.

He zipped up his pants and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands, the right one feeling like somebody else’s hand as he scrubbed it. His face in the mirror was pale and drawn, eyes glaring from their hollows. He turned off the water. He turned to use the towel roll, but it was all used up, a filthy square of fabric dangling from the dented steel holder. He fanned his hands in the air to dry them as he stepped into the hall. There was nobody waiting.

The whole cafe was strangely empty. With a lurching horror, Stuart looked out at the empty parking lot. He went out the door and looked up the deserted highway. His stomach went cold as he realized he’d left his jacket and valise on the bus. He went back in the café and sat at the empty counter.

“Missed your bus, did you?” said the red-haired waitress. “Happens all the time. These drivers, they got to keep a schedule. Another one will be along tomorrow.”

“I left my jacket,” said Stuart. “My valise. My pay voucher.” The waitress reached under the counter and got out a cup and saucer. She picked up the coffee pot and poured.

“I can’t pay for that,” said Stuart.

“On the house,” said the waitress. “You a veteran, then?”

Stuart nodded. He felt like crying.

“Hey,” said the waitress, leaning in. “Take it easy. We got a Veteran’s Affairs down the street. They ain’t open today, it being Sunday and all. But you go tomorrow morning and they’ll get you fixed up. Now drink your coffee.”

The dark-haired waitress came out of the kitchen carrying a bucket. She started wiping down the back counter, occasionally glaring up at Stuart in the mirror.

He sipped his coffee and turned his stool to watch the highway as though the bus might somehow come back. The red-haired waitress went back to the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast she set in front of Stuart. He looked up at her.

She set a fork and napkin next to the plate. “Go on. I know a hungry man when I see one.”

The dark-haired waitress shook her head and muttered something that sounded like charity case.

III.

When Stuart was done eating the red-haired waitress led him to a booth and brought him more coffee. “I’m guessing you don’t got no place to stay,” she said as she filled his cup, not meeting his eyes. “You’re welcome to sleep on my couch tonight while you wait for the VA to open.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” said Stuart.

“It’s no bother,” she said, smiling down on him. “I’d welcome the company.”

Stuart returned the smile. “Okay.”

“Well, good,” she said, straightening. “I probably only got a little bit until my shift is up. We don’t get much late afternoon trade, so it’s mostly sidework.”

Stuart felt his face grow hot as he thought of the mess he’d left in the bathroom. “I can help if you want.”

“Well aren’t you cute,” she said. “But the boss wouldn’t like it.” She leaned closer to him, holding the coffee pot out to the side. “Old Sourpuss there is a tattletale.”

As if in response, the dark-haired waitress shot them a look of disapproval.

“By the way, my name’s Christine.”

“I’m Stuart.”

“Well, Stuart, you just sit tight and I’ll get my sidework done.” She smiled again.

Watching her walk away, Stuart realized that Christine was much older than she’d first appeared, perhaps even old enough to be his mother. Her red hair had gray roots where it had grown out and the skin of her upper arms was loose and spotted. But he liked the way she smiled at him, liked her straight back in the waitress uniform. He sipped his coffee and watched Christine and the other waitress fill the salt and pepper shakers, wipe off the bottles of ketchup, and so forth.

Only one customer came in while he waited, a big man in coveralls carrying a lunchbox in one meaty hand. He sat at the counter and talked loudly to the dark-haired waitress, calling her Sugar and asking her what was good. She seemed to like him, leaning on the counter and talking to him in a low voice. He shifted and turned to look at Stuart.

“Him?” he said, laughing as he turned back. The dark-haired waitress brought him a slice of pie.

Stuart stared at his cup. The coffee had gone cold. He stared out the window at the highway. Cars whizzed by, the setting sun casting long shadows that raced along beside them. A white station wagon with wood panels rolled slowly by, the other cars swerving to pass it. It had a bulky canvas parcel tied to its roof with ropes. The back was full of children. Stuart wondered if they were going to stop at the café, but they kept going and were soon out of sight.

“Ready?” said Christine. She was wearing a short oilskin jacket and a battered man’s hat. “Come on, then.”

They walked around back to an old Dodge stake-bed truck with bald tires. In the fading light Stuart couldn’t tell what color it was. Christine yanked open the door. “Got to get in this side,” she said. “Other one’s broke.”

He climbed in and scooted across the torn upholstery. Christine reached down and grabbed a wire under the dash. She tugged it taut and handed it to Stuart. “Hold this. Keep it tight.”He did as told. She turned the ignition key and pressed the starter button. The starter whirred and ground, the engine jerking to life for a second before dying. Christine grinned at him and he saw that she was missing a few teeth in the back. “A little stubborn if she’s been sitting all day. Keep pulling that choke.” She mashed the accelerator a couple of times and tried it again. This time the engine roared to life. Stuart expected it to backfire, but instead it settled into a low rumble. Christine pulled a knob and the headlights cast two faded yellow pools on the wall of the shed. She slapped the heavy lever on the column and jerked the truck into reverse, the transmission whirring as they backed up. She shifted again and stepped on the gas, spraying gravel and dust behind them as they fishtailed onto the highway.

She bent and felt beneath the seat, slapping her free hand around as she steered. “Damn it. Must have slid. Reach down under there, Stuart, and see where that bottle has got to.”

Stuart reached down and found a pint flask of Three-Star whiskey. He handed it to her.

“You mind opening it? Sally here takes both hands or she drifts.”

Stuart uncapped the bottle and passed it over. Christine took a long swallow, then another. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the bottle to Stuart. “That’s better. Have some.”

Stuart took a sip. The caustic whiskey tasted similar to the sort smuggled into the Corpus Christi hospital and almost made him choke.

“So what’s your story, Stuart?” Christine asked. “You don’t say much.”

Stuart cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. He shrugged instead.

“Well, hell, I don’t mind. My first husband was quiet like you. Tell you God’s honest, he was my favorite. I been married four times, but two of them was to the same fella. The quiet one. We got divorced and I married another, then divorced him, then married the first one come along after. We made it six months and I threw him out, then married the first one again. I missed his quiet, I guess.”

“What happened to him?” Stuart asked.

“Oh, that got your attention, did it?” She reached over and squeezed his thigh so hard it made him gasp. “You and me gonna get along swell, Stuart.”

IV.

They left the highway and rattled down several miles of gravel road until they came to a concrete block house with flat roof. She shut off the engine and the truck juddered and bucked before settling.

"Home again home again," she said. "Ain't much but it's got a hell of a fine view." She opened the door and climbed out. "Not that you can see it in the dark."

He followed her across the dirt yard and through the unlocked front door. She reached along the wall and switched on a yellow lamp that hung from the rafters. Stuart saw a corner kitchen consisting of an old-fashioned refrigerator with its coil on the top, a four-burner wood stove, a small table with two chairs, and a drainboard sink with a zinc faucet. In the opposite corner stood a tall wardrobe with a mirrored door next to a brass hotel bed piled high with pillows. A colorful hook rug lay on the board floor. There were a few framed pictures hanging the walls, but in the dim light Stuart couldn't make out what they were pictures of.

Christine opened the icebox. “Beer?” she said, and without waiting for an answer took a pair of frosted bottles and set them on the table. She took an opener from the drainboard and popped off both caps, then handed a beer to Stuart.

“Mud in your eye,” she said, and clinked the bottles. She took a swallow and set her beer down. “Be a doll and unzip me,” she said, turning around. “This uniform is killing me.”

Stuart had never been with a woman before. The closest he’d come was when he and his buddy Joe had gone to a Morehead City whorehouse the day after Pearl Harbor. “Hell, Rags,” Joe had said, “We both probably gonna get kilt, so may as well not die no virgins.”

They'd gone to a ramshackle Victorian on the outskirts of town, taking off their garrison caps as they entered the stuffy parlor. An enormous woman with titanic cleavage bustled into the room, her thick face powder cracking around her painted lips as she grinned and joked. Without ceremony, two skinny girls came down the stairs and led Stuart and Joe up to the third floor. Stuart's girl had a backless dress that exposed the bumps of her spine beneath the freckled skin. When they reached the bedroom, the girl closed the door, sat on the bed and lifted her dress. "You want face up or face down?" she said.

"Pardon?" Stuart said, amazed.

"Different fellers like it different ways." She smiled, her front teeth gapped and discolored. "All the same to me."

Stuart, who had been feeling lightheaded on the way up the stairs, was suddenly overcome by a lurch of nausea. He got up and staggered toward the door, wanting only to be outside. As he crossed the parlor to the front porch the madam made a remark he didn't hear. He'd walked around the block a few times until he saw Joe coming out of the house. They walked back to the base and never discussed it afterward.

Christine shrugged her shoulders. "Come on now. I won't bite."

Stuart reached for the zipper with the numb right hand before correcting himself and using his left. The zipper was encased in a fold of fabric and was difficult to pull. Christine slouched slightly to make it easier and as the uniform fell away turned and moved closer, pulling Stuart by the waist. She was a little taller, so their faces lined up and he found himself staring into her eyes. They were the exact color of the sea that had so entranced him on the terrible trip to Peleliu.

He did not have time to wonder if that was important.

V.

Stuart lay in the dark next to Christine. Her bed was not large and sagged in middle, so he found himself unconsciously clinging to the edge so as not to roll into the center. They'd had sex three times that night. Each time bad begun with Stuart worrying about his performance only to find that he really didn't have do anything. He'd never given much thought to his sex organs, but they had functioned just fine. He was surprised at how good it felt.

Christine had Monday and Tuesday off, so it was Wednesday before Stuart was able to get to the VA. The building was just outside of Gallup, a blocky structure that served as a clinic and office for New Mexico veterans.

"You want me to go in with you, Honey?" said Christine, squeezing his leg.

"No, it's okay," said Stuart. "I'll be okay."

She got out and Stuart, remembering the passenger door, slid over and got out.

"Well," she said, then leaned in to kiss him. "Good luck. I need to head into work. Come by the cafe when you're done. I'll feed you lunch and we can figure out what's next."

She got into the Dodge, started it up, then drove back toward town. Stuart squared himself and took a breath, then walked toward the double door. He opened it with his left hand, feeling uncomfortable in Christine's ex-husband's clothes. He had been a large man and they didn't fit well on Stuart, the cuffs rolled up on both the pants and the shirt like a little kid wearing hand-me-downs.

Stuart is surprised to find a crowd in the lobby. Cigarette smoke hangs over the room like a fog. Men sit along the benches that line the walls, sprawl in the chairs set up in rows. He makes his way to the reception desk. A middle-aged woman with dyed black hair glances up at him from her ledger.

"Name and branch of service?" she asks.

"Uh, Dulley. Stuart Dulley. Marines."

She her finger down the list. "Dolly, you say?"

"Dulley. With a U."

"You're not here. Are you sure your appointment was today?"

"I don't have an appointment. See, I lost my voucher. All my papers. Left them on the bus."

"You need an appointment."

"I didn't know that. This is my first time here."

"Let's get you an appointment." She turns the page of her ledger. "First opening I have is next Tuesday at 9:30. Shall I put you down?"

"I just need to get my voucher."

"You can do it then."

Stuart feels hope collapse inside him. "OK. Put me down."

"What's the name again?"

Stuart tells her, adding his rank for good measure.

As he walks out, a man with an eye patch gets up out of his chair. "Hey buddy. I couldn't help overhearing. That's a FUBAR there, losing your papers."

"Yeah."

"You lose everything?"

"It was all in my coat. Wallet, discharge papers, pay voucher."

"That's rough." The man takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers one to Stuart. Stuart has never smoked, but he takes one anyway to be polite. The man lights them both and they stand there, Stuart pretending to smoke by not inhaling.

"Where'd you serve, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I was in the Pacific."

"Marines?"

Stuart nods.

"My hat's off to you, buddy. I was in Italy. It was bad there, but at least they were human beings."

Stuart remembers the Japanese he killed with a grenade, how he called for his mother as he died holding his own intestines, but does not comment.

"Hey, just thought of something," says the man. "You contact the bus company? Maybe somebody turned it in."

"Never thought of that."

The man smiles. He has an animated face, but the patch over his eye stays in the same place like a boat on a choppy sea. "I bet they have it. I bet somebody turned it in. What was its final destination?"

-end-