“What the bowb you talking about?” Bill asked thickly.
“A hero!” the officer said, pounding Bill on the back; this caused a great deal of pain and was the last straw for his conscious mind, which let go the reins of command and went away to sulk. Bill passed out.
VIII
“Now won’t you be a nice trooper-wooper and drink your dinner…”
The warn notes of the voice insinuated themselves into a singularly repulsive dream that Bill was only too glad to leave, and, with a great deal of effort, he managed to heave his eyes open. A quick bit of blinking got them into focus, and he saw before him a cup on a tray held by a white hand attached to a white arm connected to a white uniform well stuffed with female breasts. With a guttural animal growl Bill knocked the tray aside and hurled himself at the dress. He didn’t make it, because his left arm was wrapped up in something and hung from wires, so that he spun around in the bed like an impaled beetle, still uttering harsh cries. The nurse shrieked and fled.
“Glad to see that you are feeling better,” the doctor said, whipping him straight in the bed with a practiced gesture and numbing Bill’s still flailing right arm with a neat judo blow. “I’ll pour you some more dinner, and you drink it right down, then we’ll let your buddies in for the unveiling, they’re all waiting outside.”
The tingling was dying from his arm, and he could wrap his fingers about the cup now. He sipped. “What buddies? What unveiling? What’s going on here?” he asked suspiciously.
Then the door was opened, and the troopers came in. Bill searched their faces, looking for buddies, but all he saw were ex-welders and strangers. Then he remembered. “Bowb Brown cooked!” he screamed. “Tembo broiled! First Class Spleen guttedl They’re all dead!” He hid under the covers and moaned horribly.
“That’s no way for a hero to act,” the doctor said, dragging him back onto the pillows and tucking the covers under his arms. “You’re a hero, trooper, the man whose guts, ingenuity, integrity, stick-to-itiveness, fighting spirit, and deadly aim saved the ship. All the screens were down, the power room destroyed, the gunners dead, control lost, and the enemy dreadnaught zeroing in for the kill when you appeared like an avenging angel, wounded and near to death, and with your last conscious effort fired the shot heard round the fleet, the single blast that disemboweled the enemy and saved our ship, the grand old lady of the fleet, Christine Keeler.” He handed a sheet of paper to Bill. “I am of course quoting from the official report; me myself, I think it was just a lucky accident ,
You’re just jealous,” Bill sneered, already falling in love with his new image.
“Don’t get Freudian with me!” the doctor screamed, then snuffled pitifully. “I always wanted to be a hero, but all I do is wait hand and foot on heroes. I’m taking that bandage off now.”
He unclipped the wires that held up Bill’s arm and began to unwind the bandages while the troopers crowded around to watch.
“How is my arm, Doc?” Bill was suddenly worried.
“Grilled like a chop. I had to cut it off.”
“Then what is this?” Bill shrieked, horrified.
“Another arm that I sewed on. There were lots of them left over after the battle. The ship had over 42 per cent casualties, and I was really cutting and chopping and sewing, I tell you.”
The last bandage fell away and the troopers ahhhed with delight.
“Say, that’s a mighty fine arm!”
“Make it do something.”
“And a damn nice seam there at the shoulder-look how neat the stitches are!”
“Plenty of muscles, too, and good and long, not like the crummy little short one he has on the other side.”
“Longer and darker-that’s a great skin color!”
“It’s Tembo’s arm!” Bill howled. “Take it away!” He squirmed across the bed but the arm came after him. They propped him up again on the pillows.
“You’re a lucky bowb, Bill, having a good arm like that. And your buddy’s arm too.”