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Authors: Nicholas Christopher
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patients: Santa and his eight reindeer, Sharline dubbed them.
The last one I x-rayed was the navigator, whose dog tag read GEZA CASSIEL .
They wheeled him in facedown because he had shrapnel wounds across his left shoulder in the back. He was lucky—that is, he was going to make it—because the shrapnel, six pieces running in an absolutely straight line, had missed both his heart and lungs, and his neck, by no more than an inch on either side.
I x-rayed him from head to foot, then the orderlies turned him over slowly and one of them supported his shoulder while I x-rayed him up and down in the front. None of the shrapnel had come out his chest. And the X rays turned up one more piece lodged, inexplicably, in his right ankle. It, too, was extracted in surgery, but no entry wound was discovered.
Cassiel was an Air Force captain. Thirty-one years old. A tall, striking man, solidly built, with strong arms and shoulders and sleek black hair cropped short. He had been heavily sedated and his eyes were closed. His body had only been partially cleaned and there was still blood caked on his right hand—not from his wounds, it turned out, but from those of a fellow airman whom he had dragged free of their plane before it was engulfed in flames. Then he had crawled a hundred yards into the jungle, and with the shrapnel embedded in his other shoulder must have been in agony pulling a deadweight like that.
But it was something else—nowhere near his wounds—which the X rays had picked up that most stuck in my mind. It was a small key, with a round head, clearly visible in the bottom of his stomach cavity. Its teeth were complex. At first glance, I thought it had two holes at the top. Then I realized that what looked like a second hole was really a circular mineral or gem set into the key that was the same size as the key-ring hole. During my training in Honolulu we had memorized lists of substances, including minerals, that X rays could penetrate, and I guessed that this was one of them. At any rate, in other men’s X rays I had seen coins, marbles, even a soda bottle cap in their stomachs. But never a key. For that reason, and also because I wanted to see what his eyes looked like, I resolved to drop in on him the day after his surgery.
Sitting up in bed with his arm and shoulder suspended and an I.V. in his other forearm, he calmly watched me cross the postoperative room from the moment I entered it, wending my way through the myriad beds, as if he knew I was coming to see him and him alone.
His eyes were gray, with silver highlights, deeply set beneath a flat, imposing brow. His hair had been combed, and bathed completely now, fully conscious, he looked even more striking: not just handsome, with finely shaped, symmetrical features, but intense. His eyes especially so. “You must be Mala,” he said in a low, pleasant voice. “You were asking after me yesterday when I was still out.”
I was surprised.
“The other nurse told me,” he said. “She said Mala from X ray had never been in asking about anyone before.” He extended the fingers of his right hand. “Thank you for finding all that shrapnel. Including the piece in my ankle, which I’ve been walking around with for who knows how long.”
I touched his fingers, and they were cool. He had large hands and his fingers were long and powerful.
“I asked them to keep it for me,” he went on, indicating a plastic cup on the bedside table that held seven pieces of black iron, each about the size of a nickel.
“You’re feeling all right, then, Captain?” When I spoke finally, my own voice sounded remote, hoarse in my throat. And my palm was burning more than ever.
“They gave me so much morphine that my shoulder and arm are numb right through. But I’ll be all right.” He curled his fingers into a fist and compressed his lips. “All the rest of my crew was killed, blown to bits. And they tell me there was nothing left of our plane.”
“I’m
The last one I x-rayed was the navigator, whose dog tag read GEZA CASSIEL .
They wheeled him in facedown because he had shrapnel wounds across his left shoulder in the back. He was lucky—that is, he was going to make it—because the shrapnel, six pieces running in an absolutely straight line, had missed both his heart and lungs, and his neck, by no more than an inch on either side.
I x-rayed him from head to foot, then the orderlies turned him over slowly and one of them supported his shoulder while I x-rayed him up and down in the front. None of the shrapnel had come out his chest. And the X rays turned up one more piece lodged, inexplicably, in his right ankle. It, too, was extracted in surgery, but no entry wound was discovered.
Cassiel was an Air Force captain. Thirty-one years old. A tall, striking man, solidly built, with strong arms and shoulders and sleek black hair cropped short. He had been heavily sedated and his eyes were closed. His body had only been partially cleaned and there was still blood caked on his right hand—not from his wounds, it turned out, but from those of a fellow airman whom he had dragged free of their plane before it was engulfed in flames. Then he had crawled a hundred yards into the jungle, and with the shrapnel embedded in his other shoulder must have been in agony pulling a deadweight like that.
But it was something else—nowhere near his wounds—which the X rays had picked up that most stuck in my mind. It was a small key, with a round head, clearly visible in the bottom of his stomach cavity. Its teeth were complex. At first glance, I thought it had two holes at the top. Then I realized that what looked like a second hole was really a circular mineral or gem set into the key that was the same size as the key-ring hole. During my training in Honolulu we had memorized lists of substances, including minerals, that X rays could penetrate, and I guessed that this was one of them. At any rate, in other men’s X rays I had seen coins, marbles, even a soda bottle cap in their stomachs. But never a key. For that reason, and also because I wanted to see what his eyes looked like, I resolved to drop in on him the day after his surgery.
Sitting up in bed with his arm and shoulder suspended and an I.V. in his other forearm, he calmly watched me cross the postoperative room from the moment I entered it, wending my way through the myriad beds, as if he knew I was coming to see him and him alone.
His eyes were gray, with silver highlights, deeply set beneath a flat, imposing brow. His hair had been combed, and bathed completely now, fully conscious, he looked even more striking: not just handsome, with finely shaped, symmetrical features, but intense. His eyes especially so. “You must be Mala,” he said in a low, pleasant voice. “You were asking after me yesterday when I was still out.”
I was surprised.
“The other nurse told me,” he said. “She said Mala from X ray had never been in asking about anyone before.” He extended the fingers of his right hand. “Thank you for finding all that shrapnel. Including the piece in my ankle, which I’ve been walking around with for who knows how long.”
I touched his fingers, and they were cool. He had large hands and his fingers were long and powerful.
“I asked them to keep it for me,” he went on, indicating a plastic cup on the bedside table that held seven pieces of black iron, each about the size of a nickel.
“You’re feeling all right, then, Captain?” When I spoke finally, my own voice sounded remote, hoarse in my throat. And my palm was burning more than ever.
“They gave me so much morphine that my shoulder and arm are numb right through. But I’ll be all right.” He curled his fingers into a fist and compressed his lips. “All the rest of my crew was killed, blown to bits. And they tell me there was nothing left of our plane.”
“I’m
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