Buddies

Fitzsimmons Army Hospital got so many of the wounded because it was a short drive from Lowry Air Force Base. Lowry was on the flat plains just east of Denver. On almost any day, the planes flying in from the west could be seen coming over the mountains, descending to the runway in a perfectly straight line as though they were all connected to the same taut string.

I was a medic in the Army Reserves and one September Sunday in 1967 at 6:00 in the morning, we drove a dozen ambulances to Lowry to meet a medevac plane coming in from Vietnam.

The plane touched down and taxied from the runway to where the ambos waited, lined up like they were in the starting gate. The sun was rising in the east shimmering on its wings and fuselage, giving it a beauty that belied its contents. The bored looking ground crew rolled up the ramp and we hiked up to the plane’s door, some of us with stretchers and some with wheel chairs.

The plane had a center aisle with seats in the front half. The back half was lined with beds on both sides bolted to the floor and filled with injured warriors. Most wore oxygen masks. Drips hung from an overhead metal bar. Two army nurses walked up and down the aisle calming the patients and telling them they were home.

Our job was to get the patients who couldn’t walk off the plane into the ambos and then to Fitzsimmons. When they came out the door of the plane, almost every patient who could looked to the west at the sun splattered, Continental Divide, its peaks covered with snow like frosting on a cake stretching the length of the horizon.

After the walking wounded got off, I boarded with a few of my fellow weekend warriors and started down the aisle, working my way around the backpacks strewn across the floor, offering the boys a cigarette. Most grabbed it like it was a piece of gold. Some could talk- most couldn’t.

I got half way down the aisle when I saw a guy lying on his right side, facing away from me curled up and crying like a newborn.. His left foot was gone. It was Bobby, my old college buddy from Boulder. It took a minute for me to get over the shock.

I met him when we pledged the same fraternity. He was a Denver native and I was a scared to death kid from Chicago. I had applied to 3 schools, all in the west, and the University of Colorado seemed like the best. I might as well have pulled the name out of a hat. But in the end, it was the right decision.

When I went to the first pledge meeting of the fraternity that (amazingly) chose me, Bobby was standing next to me. We struck up an easy conversation. Neither of us was the most popular or smartest guy in high school; both just a couple of average mopes who lucked out by getting in to Boulder.

I had never skied; but when Bobby said to me “Why don’t you come up to Copper Mountain with me?” I somehow managed to get “Sure” out before I could change my mind.

That first day on the mountain changed me forever. I took some lessons and, by afternoon, was able to snowplow down the beginners’ hill. I loved it: and for the rest of the winter and the next and the next, Bobby and I would spend Saturdays or Sundays checking out every ski mountain within a couple hours drive from Boulder.

We ended up taking classes together, trying to bed the same sorority girls and pretty much hanging out. He took me to his home in Denver where I met his family. He was my best friend for 4 years until we graduated and he enlisted. I never understood it and he just said he had to. Once he left for basic training, I never heard from him. It was only later, when I contacted his sister to see how he was doing, that I found out he had become estranged from his family and joined the Army to get away from them.

Now, looking down at him on that plane, I carefully put a hand on his shoulder and said “Bobby. It’s me, Sandy from college. How are you doing?”

It was a dumb question; like asking a guy in an electric chair if he’s comfortable. Bobby gradually turned over and the sobbing slowly subsided. He looked at me with his water filled still blue eyes and said “Sandy! What the fuck are you doing here? Actually, what the fuck am I doing here?”

“Bobby, I’m here to get you over to Fitzsimons so they can take care of you.”

“Sandy, they can’t do shit for me; I lost a foot.”

“I’m so sorry Bobby,” I replied, not knowing what else to say “ Do you want a cigarette or some water?”

“No. I want a gun,“ replied Bobby. I just looked at him, tears coming to my eyes.

We got Bobby on to a stretcher and out of the plane. By this time, Bobby had settled down and just laid there, curled up on his right side, staring blankly at nothing, the leg with the missing foot on top.

The ride to Fitzsimmons was only about ten minutes. I spent the time sitting with Bobby, trying to have a conversation. He gave one-word answers to my questions. I learned that he had lived alone in a small town in the foothills west of Denver where worked the night shift at a local motel before he enlisted. Even though he no longer talked to anyone in his family, he stayed in Colorado because he loved skiing more than anything. He could get to a ski hill in 30 minutes from his house and did so every chance he had.

In the meantime, I was working a desk job in downtown Denver and living in a yuppie part of town that had plenty of bars and girls. It was a long way from Vietnam.

When he was carried off that plane, Bobby had been “in country” for a little over a year. He lost the foot when he stepped on a mine. That’s when they shipped him out to Fitzsimmons.

Fitzsimmons is a huge old building that was built during World War 1. The turmoil is constant. Between the guys coming off the planes from ‘Nam and the vets living in Denver, it was rush hour twenty hour seven.

We unloaded Bobby from the ambo at the ER. A couple guys came out to get him. It was clear that unloading ambos was a job for them. They never talked or even looked at Bobby or any of the other guys. They could have been unloading crates of supplies.

As they were rolling him inside, I yelled out, “Hey Bobby, can I come see you?”

“Sure. Why not? “He replied.

It took me three days before I could work up the guts to go see him. He was on a ward on the west side of the fourth floor. All the beds were lined up like soldiers, facing toward the aisle and perfectly spaced. Those lucky enough to be on the east side of the room had a sort of view of the Rockies. Bobby was on the east side.

“Bobby! How are you? Great view.”

“Yeah, great view of the mountains I’ll never ski again,” he answered.

That’s how it went every time I came to visit him for the next couple months. He was in PT and they were making him a prosthetic. Once he got that, they started to teach him to walk again. He would swing that footless leg out with each stride, leaning into it with his whole body. At first, he could only take a few steps. After a while, he could walk down the long hall. So they discharged him.

He had no other friends and no relatives that even knew he was in a ward just a few mies from where they lived. So, I gave Bobby a ride up to his house. By this time, it was almost winter and snow covered the driveway. I had to shovel it while Bobby waited in the car.

It was a small old wood cabin with a small living and dining area, a single bedroom, a fireplace and an old kitchen that looked like it still had the original stove and refrigerator from the 1930’s. The front porch had two chairs that faced the vertical mountains that surrounded it, the sound of the creek down the road providing musical accompaniment to the view.

When I asked Bobby what he was going to do, he said, “I don’t know yet. The one thing I am sure about is that my skiing days are over and for me, that was everything.”

I didn’t know how to answer, so I let it go. I went to the local grocery store and bought him a couple weeks of stuff that didn’t need cooking or prep. I helped him get settled and then made my way down the hill back into the city. As I drove, the snow began again. For me, and I am sure, Bobby, the falling flakes that were making a perfect powder on the ski hills were the most beautiful thing in the world.

A thought was coming in to my head and I needed to do something about it. So, when I got back down, I made some calls to check out my idea. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I had to try.

The next weekend, I drove up to Bobby’s place. He was not in a good mood , just staring at the cold fireplace almost as if he was trying to light it with his eyes. I couldn’t get him to talk.

Finally, I said ”Bobby, I have an idea. Let’s drive up to Winter Park and look around”

“Are you fucking crazy? Why would I want to do that?”

“I think you’ll like seeing those runs we used to do” I replied.

“Why? So I can keep remembering what I lost?”

It took about a half hour more before I convinced him to come. When we got in the car, he noticed my skis and boots in the back.

“What? You’re going to ski while I sit with my one foot and watch? Asshole” he said.

“Easy, Bobby. That’s not the deal. Just calm down and watch the view,” I answered, not even convincing myself We got to Winter Park and made our way over to the lodge, Bobby hobbling the whole way though the crowds of skiers hurrying to the lifts with their skis on their shoulders and excitement on their faces. Bobby was mad and sad as he slouched toward the lodge. When we got there , I asked Bobby to wait a minute and walked off. When I came back, I had a ski patrol guy with me.

“Bobby, this is Chuck. He tells me he has worked with amputees and got them up skiing. Want to try?”

Bobby didn’t say as word for a long time. Then he said, ”You guys are jerking me around. This is total BS. I can’t ski. I can barely walk. I had the most wonderful thing in me life ripped out from under me. And you guys are doing this? Fuck you both.”

Chuck quietly and gently explained that skiing was all about the legs, not the feet and he had taught a lot of other guys. He talked to him for a long time before Bobby agreed to give it a try.

So we went over to the rental counter and got Bobby some boots and skis. Chuck helped Bobby get the boot over the prosthetic and we started to walk to the lift.

Bobby could hardly manage it. He told me the heavy boot on the prosthetic felt like a boulder hanging from his leg and how stupid this whole thing was. . It took us 10 minutes to get to the bunny hill lift. The whole time, Bobby was saying, “I can’t do this. I hate this. It’s a joke. You guys are assholes.”

When we got to the lift, Chuck helped Bobby with his skis and getting on the chair. We got to the top pretty fast. Bobby fell getting off the chair and Chuck helped him up while Bobby swore at both of us and said he wanted to go home.

Chuck practically dragged Bobby to the edge and gave him a gentle push down. Then it was magic. With Chuck next to him and me behind, Bobby quickly got his rhythm and made that first turn. Then he made another and another. He grunted and swore all the way, but he made it. At the bottom, he stepped out of the bindings and lay on the ground on his right side. He curled his body and started sobbing. But this time, the tears running down his face were tears of joy.

By Richard Levy

From: United States