Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

So our post always sends out a visiting committee every Sunday, every

holiday. I’m usually on it, have been for thirty years-if you can’t pay a debt, you

can at least try to meet the interest. And you do get so that you can stand it.

But Jones was a young fellow making his first visit. Quite upset, he was.

Well, surely, I would have despised him if he hadn’t been-this crop was fresh in

from Southeast Asia. Jones had held it in, then burst out with that remark once we

were outside.

“What do you mean by ‘bravery’?” I asked him. (Not but what Jones had plenty

to back up his opinion- this lad he was talking about was shy both legs and his

eyesight, yet he was chin-up and merry.)

“Well, what do you mean by ‘bravery’? Jones de

manded, then added, “sir.” Respect for my white hair rather than my opinions, I

think; there was an edge in his voice.

“Keep your shirt on, son,” I answered. “What that lad back there has I’d

call ‘fortitude,’ the ability to endure adversity without losing your morale. I’m

not disparaging it; it may be a higher virtue than bravery-but I define ‘bravery’ as

the capacity to choose to face danger when you are frightened by it.”

“Why do you say ‘choose’?”

“Because nine men out often meet the test when it’s forced on them. But it

takes something extra to face up to danger when it scares the crap out of you and

there’s an easy way to bug out.” I glanced at my watch. “Give me three minutes and

I’ll tell you about the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

I was a young fellow myself back between War One and War Two and had been in

a hospital much like this one Arkwright and Jones and I had visited- picked up a

spot on my lung in the Canal Zone and had been sent there for the cure. Mind you,

this was years ago when lung therapy was primitive. No antibiotics, no specific

drugs. The first thing they would try was a phrenectomy-cut the nerve that controls

the diaphragm to immobilize the lung and let it get well. If that didn’t work, they

used artificial pneumothorax. If that failed, they did a “backdoor job”-chop out

some ribs and fit you with a corset.

All these were just expedients to hold a lung still so it could get well. In

artificial pneumothorax they shove a hollow needle between your ribs so that the end

is between rib wall and lung wall, then pump the space in between full of air; this

compresses the lung like a squeezed sponge.

But the air would be absorbed after a while and you had to get pumped up

again. Every Friday morning those of us on pneumo would gather in the ward surgeon’s

office for the needle. It wasn’t grim-lungers

are funny people; they are almost always cheerful. This was an officers’ ward and we

treated it like a club. Instead of queuing up outside the surgeon’s office we would

swarm in, loll in his chair, sit on his desk, smoke his cigarettes, and swap lies

while he took care of us. Four of us that morning and I was the first.

Taking the air needle isn’t bad-just a slight prick as it goes in and you

can even avoid that if you want to bother with skin anesthesia. It’s over in a few

minutes; you put your bathrobe back on and go back to bed. I hung around after I was

through because the second patient, chap named Saunders, was telling a dirty story

that was new to me.

He broke off in the middle of it to climb up on the table when I got off.

Our number-one ward surgeon was on leave and his assistant was taking care of us- a

young chap not long out of school. We all liked him and felt he had the makings of a

great surgeon.

Getting pumped up is not dangerous in any reasonable sense of the word. You

can break your neck falling off a step ladder, choke to death on a chicken bone. You