Twenty Years is Better

Copyright ©2021 Elder Road Books
Original draft, 1969
Revised 2021
No previous publication

JAMES. JAMES. That wasn’t his name, but it will do. I don’t remember his name now. That’s unusual for me. I remember names so well. James. I’ll call him James for now.

Before the war, we were classmates in school. I always looked up to him. He was brave and popular and smart. I wasn’t really any of those things. What war? It doesn’t make a difference. They’re all the same. We both joined the army after school. He went to the infantry. I trained an additional sixteen weeks to become a medic.

The little bag they give a medic seems inadequate to the mission of “Go save lives.” Saline, tourniquets, bandages, tubing, alcohol, needles. Of course, I had gloves and masks. Morphine, antibiotics, Narcan, and aspirin. I hadn’t even been sent to the front and I was already in despair. How could I save lives with this paltry kit?

And then I was there. I no longer thought about what I had in the kit. I applied pressure, bandaged wounds, replaced blood, killed pain. Mostly, I saved lives. Ninety percent of battlefield deaths occur before any medical help arrives. If I wanted to save more lives, I needed to be closer to where they were wounded. So, I volunteered for missions at the front where I could save lives.

As I was treating the wounded in the midst of a fight, I was joined by another medic who worked beside me. I’d arrived at a wounded soldier just too late to do anything for him but give him my blessing as his soul took flight.

“It hurts, doesn’t it? Not being there in time to save one. Not being able to save the one you are there for,” the other medic said. He had strange markings tattooed on his face. “Here. Take this. I don’t have much. I made it.” He handed me a vial of clear liquid. It was unmarked. “Inject this in a man’s heart and it will continue to beat for twenty years. Use it wisely. He may not forgive you.”

Then the medic ... a witchdoctor of some sort ... left to tend to someone far away. I lost track of him as I was called to yet another wounded soldier. I forgot about the vial. It was stupid. How could it keep a heart beating for twenty years? It rested in the bottom of my kit, forgotten.

James had been out with his squadron on a mission. They were hit by surprise. Those who weren’t dead looked like they were by the time we got to them. He was that way. I could tell he was in pain, but he never said anything. I searched in my kit for another vial of morphine. James was dying. Only his name wasn’t James. That will have to do for now. I came across the vial of clear liquid deep in my kit. Use it wisely. He was dying in front of me and I couldn’t let that happen. I filled my syringe and injected it straight into his heart.

He gasped and closed his eyes. I was sure I’d killed him. But he continued to breathe. His heart continued to beat.

“This will give you twenty years,” I whispered. “Twenty years is better than five minutes.”

He looked at me and frowned, then lost consciousness altogether.

I wish I could remember his name. It wasn’t James but I’ll have to call him James for now. They loaded him right into the transport with the rest of the dead men. It’s lucky they found he was alive before they shipped them home to be buried. James.

The post-war years were hard and he traveled from town to town looking for work. He ended up in a small midwestern town and got a job at the foundry. He met his wife while he was there. She was a young divorcee. She had two little daughters. I shouldn’t have told him he had twenty years. He might have been happy.

I found him lying there. I knew the effects of what I had in my hand. But I liked him. Isn’t twenty years better than five minutes? It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have told him. It gave him nightmares.

James. That wasn’t his name. It gave him nightmares—knowing did. I shouldn’t have told him. I wish I could remember his name. He could have had such a happy marriage.

Not that it was a bad marriage. They loved each other. They were compatible. It should have been ideal. Except for the nightmares. He told his wife and she cried. I don’t know why he told her how much time he had, but he did. I didn’t even know what I gave him. I liked him, so I gave him the magic potion. After all, twenty years is better than five minutes. He told her and she cried, but she was strong and learned to live with it.

Sometimes they were so happy that she even forgot about it. Sometimes. But then came the nightmares again. A big machine ate him. It was probably just an image manufactured from his fever. He woke up in the night with sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. Stiff and cold. Wanting to relax, but afraid. He felt dead. Wanting to cry, to talk, to scream, but unable to do anything. He couldn’t move or breathe or speak. Then it passed and he realized it was only a nightmare.

They had a son. Eventually, two sons. Then came the daughters. One was fair with black hair; one was heavy with blonde hair; one was just like his wife, slight and frail. Then came the nightmares again. The machine ate him. The long cold sleepless nights.

I wish I could remember his name. It’s not like me to forget names. I guess that James will do.

Shortly after their third daughter was born, his wife fell. She hadn’t recovered fully from childbirth—lost her balance and fell on her way down the stairs to the basement. She hit her head on the concrete floor and was unconscious. He took her to the hospital. It was his turn to cry and he did. While he waited in the waiting room, the tears ran freely. No one ever saw him cry before like he did when the doctor told him that his wife would be well with a few days’ rest. His children never saw him cry.