He holds a sheet of balsa pattern down with the
side of his left hand and with a razor blade carefully cuts out the tiny curved
piece he is going to use next. It is an intricate piece, and his hand shakes a
little, but the razor blade runs through on the black line, and he lifts the
little piece free and puts it down on the table to apply a spot of glue to each
end of it. Then carefully, with his right hand, he sets the piece in its place.
“I let my nails grow long,” he says. “I can use my fingernails for lots of things.”
With the long fingernail of his right forefinger he scrapes off a little drop
of glue that is squeezed out of the joint and wipes it on a piece of paper.
“I’m worried about this hand,” he says. “Of
course, I guess I can get a job. I’m not worried about that so much. I can
always get a job. But I’ve got to get this hand into shape so that it will grab
ahold of things.” He turns the model plane over and then studies the pattern
sheet for the next piece. He is silent for a long time. “My wife knows I was
hurt. She doesn’t know how bad. She knows I’m going to get well all right and
come home, but—she must be thinking pretty hard. I got to get that hand
working. She wouldn’t like a cripple with a hand that wouldn’t work.”
His eyes are a little feverish. “Well, how
would you like a cripple to come home? What would you think about that?
“It will always be a little crooked,” he says,
“but I wouldn’t mind that so much if it worked. I don’t think she would mind so
much if it worked. She has got a job in a plane factory out on the Coast—doing
a man’s work. She says she is doing fine and I’m not to worry. Here. I’ll show
you a picture of her.” He reaches in his bathrobe pocket. “Where is it?” he
says. “The nurse always puts it in here.” He puts his left hand in his pocket
and brings out a little leather wallet. And suddenly he sees what he has done
and the fingers relax and the wallet drops to the table. “God Almighty!” he
says. “Did you see that?” He looks at the crooked hand still suspended in the
air. “That’s twice in two days,” he says softly. “Twice in two days.”
THE CAREER OF BIG TRAIN MULLIGAN
SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND, August 4, 1943—It
has been possible to compile further data on the life and methods of Private
Big Train Mulligan, a man who has succeeded in making a good part of the Army
work for him. It has been said of him by one of his enemies, of whom he has
very few, that he would be a goldbrick but he is too damn lazy.
