“So The Shrink Says To Me…*”


So the shrink says this:

why do you like guns?

Say, What!

AssUMe Donkey Brays!

 

  • (The scene: December 24, 1970, at the mess hall at U. S. Naval Hospital Jacksonville, Florida.  I arrived yesterday afternoon after interminable small-jet patient delivery stops in Alabama, Georgia, South AND North Carolina, Virginia, Pensacola (why then wait for Florida when that was where the big C141 Starlifter Med-Evac flight  from USNH Yokohama, Japan, via some Air Force base in Alaska – Anchorage I believe – originated.  But, nonetheless, from Pensacola I dragged weary ass off the plane to be taken by ambulance – I insisted I sit in the second-row seating and not lay down on a stretcher – Hey: I’m in my jungle utilities uniform and can see I outrank each and every one of you sailors so, BTFO! and maybe that’s why the guy in khaki clothes sans insignia comes to me as I sit down at an empty table and marvel at the two glasses of cold milk, the real just-then-cooked scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, french toast and maple syrup and a mound of butter…if this is being med-evaced back  to The World, I think I can hack it – and says “Mind if I sit down?”  I mumble okay, I think and begin to destroy the first glass of cold milk I can remember in forever…even Japan…but that’s mostly a blurr from just a few days to supposedly calm my inner ear infections and other infections caused by wood and metal ungraciously lodging in my face, arms, chest and hands…and one sneaky chunk of metal in my left forearm and in my left rear shoulder…I never even asked about that.  The Navy guy: Shrink his nonchalance screamed, aside from his lack of insignia, cadeuces or even those funny headphones them guys all seemed to wear – and what about the instant-cold metal disc they kept slapping all over your chest and ordering “breathe!”. But I digress.  H sat there, smiling.  I put down the now-empty first large glass – glass!  WTF! Glass.  The coffee cups here had finger rings, too!  Where AM I?  I looked up at him and gave a half-nod, leaning leftishly.  “So, say.  Why do you like guns?”  Huh?  What is this clown saying?  “Never said I like guns, your shrinkship, sir,” I retort.  “You are a psychiatrist, no?” He assents with a nod.  “So you just like to hang out at breakfast and try to pick up Marines, or am I special?” He quirks and nods leftishly back.  Ohhh. You guys are rapidly running out of combat casualties and to justify your pay you must find out why I tick. So I launch right at the good doctor:  I really prefer bayonets to guns.  Back up on the surgery ward in my AWOL bag is my Randall Knife, made for me by a friend of my little brother down in Orlando.  I wouldn’t let anyone promise to send it to me later.  It’s a keep sake. I musta split and skewered fifteen Gooner Babies with that beauty.  Barbecued a few afterwards, too. Now, sir. Get The Fuck outta my sight.  I’m leaving this burg in a couple of hours on survivor’s leave on Christmas Eve afternoon and in a month when I come back for my surgery if you have improved your breakfastside manner we yet may converse.  Do Not. I repeat: Do Not fuck with me right now, Doc.  I just wanna go home, see my dog and my cat and have a cold beer and wait for my parents to come back from Colorado and surprise the fuck out of them. Understand? Now, disappear!”  He did. I did. And he never seemed to find the need to talk to me after I got back.)

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