Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-35711173-20181225051046

This is intended to evolve into a Valentine's Day entry. I have two alternative endings to the story.

I had considered categories of Military and Mental Illness.

When Walter woke up, he glanced around and saw he was in a hospital bed, but it wasn’t a hospital room. It smelled of stale urine and cleaning fluid. He saw pictures of himself on the wall. Most were from Tan Son Nhut Air Base with the 481st Tactical Fighter Squadron. Colonel Sweat looked down, awarding him the Distinguished Flying Cross for saving the ass of Army Special Forces’s in Bu Dop. Underneath it, his medals, rank insignia and a Green Knight patch were displayed in a walnut case. A model of an F-100D sat next to it. He was shaky, but he slowly climbed out of bed and inspected the figure of the airplane. Very nice. Great detail. It even looked like his old Hun down to the correct camouflage paint and green triangle on the tail.

Then he carefully examined the rest of the photographs. Of course, he recognized his and Mary’s wedding picture at the Air Force Academy chapel. He noticed a portrait of his Dad with Anne, Mary’s mother. By it was a framed snapshot of Dad and Anne. People of all ages he didn’t recognize surrounded them, everything from smiling men in their 50s to young women holding babies. A little Oriental woman in a nurse’s uniform knocked as she stepped in. “Are we feeling better today, Mr. Schmidt,” she said with a thick accent. Walter turned around, looking at her. Why would they have a Vietnamese nurse in an American military hospital? “Who are you,” he replied in confusion. “Where am I?” She pointed at her nametag. “I am Mei-Ling. This is Hollybrook Senior Living.” No, she was Viet Cong or Red Chinese. He must have been captured. He could hear other prisoners. Some were screaming. “Name, rank and serial number,” he yelled. “That’s all you will get.” “It’s OK, Mr. Schmidt,” Mei-Ling said, looking at him warily. “Today is Valentine’s Day. We want to help you clean up and dress. Your family is coming to visit you. Isn’t that nice?” “Schmidt, Walter Helmut, Captain, United States Air Force, 73412,” he shouted.

“That’s alright.” She looked frightened. “I will be right back. Don’t leave.” Walter hadn’t considered that. Could he escape? A burly man came in. “Mister Schmidt,” he said with a Cuban accent. “My name is Santiago. Let me help you this morning.” Walter knew the VC used Cubans and rebel Puerto Ricans for interrogations. He backed away, holding his hands up in defense against the blows he was sure would come from his interrogator. “Just relax,” Santiago said. “You don’t want to be all stinky for your grandbabies on Valentine’s Day. Do you need help to undress?”

He decided to choose his battles carefully. Maybe he could lure them into a false sense of security. He tried pulling his shirt off but was too weak. It must be the drugs they gave him to make him talk. Showered and dressed, Santiago put him in a wheelchair and pushed him to a dining facility. Along the way, he saw frail ghosts of men being wheeled by prison guards in nurse uniforms. How many other prisoners in the camp? Where was he? The mess hall was festooned with pink and white streamers with red paper hearts on the walls. Walter had heard how the Korean War POWs had been starved. The chow here smelled delicious. Scrambled eggs with bacon twisted into a heart shape, oatmeal, whole-wheat toast, and prune juice. They didn’t give him any silverware to eat his porridge. “Please, a food shovel,” he said, gesturing as he searched his brain for the right words but could not find them. After breakfast, they wheeled him back to his room and gave him what they said was “medicine,” pills and an injection they said was insulin. More mind control drugs. Walter struggled, but it was no use. Santiago and another big ape held him while Mei-Ling injected him. The truth serum left him feeling sad, and tired, and crawling out of his skin. When would they interrogate him? It had to be soon, before their drugs wore off. A cute little girl in a pink dress and blonde pigtails burst into the room and hugged him. “Granddad, Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you.” She looked sweet, but he had no idea who she was. Moments later, a couple entered his cell. “Dad,” the husband said. “How are you today?” He resembled Karl, Walter’s older brother. Not enough to fool anyone though. The junior version of the strange man walked beside him. They were a matched set down to how they combed his hair. “Hey, Granddad.” “Who are you,” Walter asked, puzzled. He didn’t know any of them. “Dad, I am your son.” “Happy Valentine's Day, Grandpa Schmidt,” said a woman holding a baby.” Walter smiled back suspiciously, looking at the framed picture. “Where’s Mary,” he asked. “Mom died four years ago,” the man replied. Walter glanced again at the wall. The boy and girl looked just like they did in the photograph. Something was very wrong with that, but what?

“We brought a gift for you,” the woman said as she took a wrapped package out of her diaper bag, and handed him. He knew from the round shape what it was. “Die Energie-Sartbitter-Shokokolade.” Sho-ka-kola dark, his favorite. German caffeinated chocolate in little tins. Giving many thanks, Walter opened the present. The heavenly chocolate aroma, with that rich, intense taste that melted into the perfect coffee flavor. The little girl climbed up next to him, reaching for a piece, but the woman swept her hand away. “Annie, none of that or you won’t sleep for a week.” “Oh, Mom!” “Tell us a story,” the boy said, climbing next to him. “Yes,” the girl said. “Tell us one of your stories.” “Tell us about the war,” the boy said. “We want to hear again about Operation Bolo when you fooled the gooks into thinking your F-4 Phantom fighters were Thunderchief bombers and mowed them all down.” “Walt has been begging to hear your stories,” the man said, sitting down. “They both love hearing your war stories,” the woman said. She checked the baby’s bottom. “Karl’s got a stinky.” She ducked into the bathroom with the baby and her diaper bag. Walter sat back on the bed, savoring another piece of chocolate and remembering a TV show he had seen. “First, the scientists came out and mounted the cloaking devices in our fighters. We were completely invisible. Charlie couldn’t see us or track us on their radar. So when they sent up their MiG 21 interceptors to nail the F-105 Thud bombers, we materialized out of thin air. We lined the blue bandits up, fired our cannons and blew them all out of the sky.” Would the story end better like this: --- Down the hall, tape recorders captured every word as two men listened intently. One spoke to the other in Russian. “He knows. Through all the drugs and the whole show, he knows and is giving us total bullshit.” ---

Or would it end better like this? --- Helmut slipped out for a moment, leaving his family listening to stories about things they knew never happened. He stopped a nurse. “How is my Dad doing?”

Mei-Ling shrugged. “He still has his good days, Mr. Schmidt. But the bad ones come more often.”

He thought back to growing up with his Opa and watching his mind go. How long did he have until he didn‘t remember his own children? Would Karl and Annie even visit him on Valentine's Day? --- 