Roy Exum: My Aunt Martha

  • Thursday, September 18, 2014
  • Roy Exum
Roy Exum
Roy Exum

During my first year at Ole Miss, I was so distracted by the stunning coeds on campus that I paid too much attention to the wrong kind of figures. I ended up flubbing a math class, which at the time was most serious and potentially deadly for an American boy. It meant I didn't have enough credit hours to avoid the draft and in almost no time I got a red, gut-retching postcard that informed me that my friends and neighbors had chosen me to help defend the United States.

Today I am a firm believer that every young person – both boys and girls -- should serve two years for their country, whether in the military, helping in a mental hospital, the Forestry Service or something else noble like Israel does. But at the time I'd been to some funerals of former classmates killed in Viet Nam and the great majority of guys like me wanted nothing to do with LBJ's war or General Dynamic's greed. It was a terrible time in our country.

A year or two earlier, the rules at my house got a little too tight and the criticisms were coming a bit too often so I moved in with my aunt, the lovable Martha McDonald. Martha died several weeks ago and was one of the greatest loves of my life. And now that she's gone, I can finally tell the story of how she once saved my life. Believe me, I'm so dumb I wouldn't have lasted in the jungle a week with hand grenades lying around.

Fraught with despair back then, I quickly developed stomach problems after I got the dreaded red card and Martha, who was a great doctor at the old Campbell's Clinic on McCallie Avenue, diagnosed a duodenal ulcer. She showed me this little pin-dot on an X-ray, gave me some samples, and I thought it had cleared up but, boy, the worry only got worse.

My older brother was already in Viet Nam with the Marines and he had told me pretty graphically how bad war really was. When he heard I'd been drafted, Kinch immediately signed on for a second tour in Southeast Asia in hopes two brothers wouldn't have to be in combat at the same time. Yeah, that's the kind of guy he was and, when he died of cancer at age 56 some years back, the thinking was that his daily dousing of Agent Orange in Viet Nam had a lot to do with it.

Living with Aunt Martha was a hoot. We'd read best-sellers like "The Godfather" and talk about them, Martha carefully teaching me about writing style when only years later would I realize it. She would read my sports stories, offering ideas. Life was good but the days were dwindling before I'd leave Aunt Martha for Uncle Sam.

About two weeks before I had to report, Martha told me I didn't look good and to come by her office for an upper GI workup.  She said I needed another X-ray of my duodenum and, a couple of days later, came home with a big X-ray that looked a lot worse than the first one, though I felt better. She also had a letter from Dr. Guy Francis, the UTC team doctor, stating that in his opinion I was unfit for military service at the time. Understand, with my middle name being "McDonald," she didn't write the letter herself lest somebody might smell a fish.

The day came when I left home about 2:30 in the morning, driving my shiny Corvette and my huge X-ray to LaFayette, since we lived in Georgia. There was a big Greyhound bus that was leaving the courthouse lot at 4:30 a.m. for Fort McPherson and this constable-looking guy called my name about the time I got there to put me in charge of Group No. 122. "If any of these boys fails to get to McPherson, you could go to jail," he told lucky me.

We were the worst-looking crowd of guys you ever saw. A few mothers were crying and most of Group No. 122 were gloomily standing in the cold, not making much eye contact. At the back of the bus some guys had a huge mayonnaise jar, filled about three-quarters full of white sugar. The constable long gone, they then poured a quart of Jack Daniels in it and stirred it up real fast with a ruler. Then they offered any of the rest of us a long pull of the syrup for $5.00 each, guaranteeing high blood pressure and maybe diabetes by the time we hit Atlanta. I passed, gripping my X-ray, but they quickly sold out.

Not one person said one word as "The Dog" hauled us into Atlanta. It let Group No. 122 out at this huge hangar and I passed out the envelopes the constable-guy had entrusted me with. As dawn broke we got to watch Group No. 118 join the military after being processed all night. The soldiers ordered the inductees to stand on these yellow tiles four feet apart and count off by fours. They stood quietly until a door opened and a Master Sergeant bellowed, "All you No. 1s are now in the Army. Follow me."

The 2s, 3s, and 4s started studying each other. Five more minutes and a Flight Sergeant came out. You would have thought the 2s had just won the lottery but, oh, the 3s and 4s were really nervous. Everybody knew half were going on a boat ride and the other half was going to "The Island," as in Parris. When the Boson's Mate or whatever he was then stepped out of the door for the 3s, one of the 4s fainted.

Soon Group No. 122 was being processed. About 9 o'clock they got around to the medical cases. "Anybody got blood pressure problems?" and about 12 from Group No. 122 stepped forward. "You go with this sergeant ... you'll sleep here tonight and we'll test your blood pressure before you leave tomorrow."

About eight of the "patients" rolled their eyes and grimly shuffled back to stand with Group No. 122. "You others with medical reasons come with me."

We were a sorry lot. One guy had glasses thicker than the bottom of a Coca-Cola bottle. Another limped so badly his right foot pointed to three o'clock. One said he had mysterious spells where he became mute for many hours at a time.  I was too busy with my silent prayers to say anything as we paraded into an infirmary type of place. They called the guy with the bad foot in first. Less than five minutes later he came out cussing, even though he had been miraculously healed and was walking just fine as he begrudgingly headed to boot camp.

But the bigger shock was when it came my turn, I handed the corpsman my letter and the X-ray. He got up from behind the desk to study the film and, so help me, he couldn't bend his left leg. It was obviously frozen. It was equally obvious that if he had to do his time as a Navy doc, everybody was going to do their time for their favorite uncle, too.

"Aw, this isn't that bad ..." the medic surmised. "Most of the time when you start living right these things go away ... " he added but then he paused, the corner of the X-ray catching his eye. "M. McDonald ... Chattanooga ... M. McDonald?" he wondered aloud after seeing Aunt Martha's name on the X-ray, even though she had carefully gotten Dr. Francis to write the letter. "Is this a female doctor? Is this a Martha McDonald?"

I thought I was going to have a stroke. My silent prayer changed to "Take me, Lord! Take me! Take me to heaven right now!" but I gulped and said "Yessir, she'd be the one."

Dr. Gloom changed instantly. "How is she! Martha! Do you ever see her? If it hadn't have been for Martha I'd never made it through medical school!" Oh my goodness. While I've never been shy to play a trump card, I managed a meek smile and confided, "She's my aunt ... I live with her."

Well, he soon told me how sorry he was that I was so sick, gave me his card because he wanted Martha to call him, and I was promptly escorted to a green Army Plymouth with orders to be taken back to Chattanooga. I told the driver I had some transportation already waiting in LaFayette but I'd get out wherever he thought was best. I also told him I'd sure be obliged for one of his cigarettes.

Later that very afternoon I broke the speed limit driving back to Martha's office and actually cried when I thanked her for being so nice to a stiff-legged medical student once in Virginia.  I could tell stories about Martha McDonald for days but the time she saved my life at Fort McPherson always made the two of us laugh a little whenever it was brought to light.

Whew wee, my Aunt Martha was evermore a dandy.

royexum@aol.com



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