Waggoners Gap

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

1100 Hours

July 16, 1919

Army Rehabilitation Hospital No. 31.

Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania

Limping noticeably, Cpl. Genero walked through the Army hospital’s outpatient processing office at the southeast corner of Carlisle Barracks. He knocked on the hospital administrator’s office door. When the Medical Services Corps lieutenant acknowledged him, Genero entered.

“Corporal Genero reporting as directed, sir.”

“Oh, Corporal Genero, good to see you! Stand easy. There’s no need to be formal. How are you?” The officer said in a concerned tone.

“Fine, sir. Not much pain. The leg is a little stiff. Won’t be running any races, but I can get around all right.”

“That’s very good. Glad to hear it. You’ve done well in your rehabilitation. I have your Army discharge papers right here.”

Genero, walked over to the desk. Examining the documents, he noted that his discharge depicted his service as Honorable. Phillip was proud of his record, but never thought of himself as a career soldier. Good thing; his wounds wouldn’t permit it.

“Corporal Genero, your separation papers reflect that you were wounded four times, once with a bayonet. You were shot in your left leg three times. You’re entitled to recognition on your Certificate of Merit. Since the wounds come from two separate actions, the Army’s awarded you two Wound Chevrons to wear on the right cuff of your Class A uniform,” the medical administrator explained.

“Phillip,” he continued. “I’m sorry. We’re all embarrassed here. There’s been no official action on the recommendation for the Distinguished Service Cross. It’s a shame, considering all you’ve been through. I’d have thought that they’d push it along before we discharged you.”

“Sir, it’s OK. I’m glad to be home. I don’t need chevrons or a medal to remember what I did. I’m alive and I’ve got the best wife and son that a man could have. Frankly, I hope to forget most of what I’ve seen and done. Better that way, sir. Believe me.”

“Well, you have every right to feel that way. It’s still a damn shame! Your friend, Sergeant York, sure got a lot of credit. He received the Medal of Honor and a Distinguished Service Cross. I believe he got awards from France, too. York’s quite the celebrity. Invited to dinner at the White House, tickertape parade in New York, all the trappings. I’ll bet he loves every minute of it, huh? I understand that Hollywood wants him to be a movie star,” the officer expounded with wink and a smile, implying the lascivious, fringe benefits of being a hero.

“Sir, I’m sure Alvin’s miserable. I can’t imagine him in New York or with the President at the White House. He’ll never be in the movies. My guess is that he’d rather be hunting along the Wolf River. Sir, if ever a man didn’t want fame, it’s Alvin C. York.”

The officer and Phillip chatted for ten more minutes. Feeling uncomfortable, Genero asked to take his leave. He had family obligations.

The officer completed the paperwork, organized the copies that were Genero’s, and placed them—and the balance of Phillip’s military pay—in a large brown envelope. Neatly bundled, he handed the service record to Phillip.

Cpl. Phillip Genero snapped to attention, saluted—for the last time—and turned slowly, unable to execute a proper about face due to his leg. He walked out of the hospital and looked around the lovely, park-like grounds of Carlisle Barracks. As he took a deep breath of the warm, sultry summer air, Genero felt satisfaction knowing that he was now a small part of the history of this place.

Phillip Genero had spent nearly six months in hospitals in France, ships in transit, and medical facilities in New York and Philadelphia. After he made it back to the United States, Marta and Phillip’s father traveled to see him in the hospital in New York.

The Generos had a tearful and joyous reunion limited by the fact that Phillip’s injuries had not properly healed. Since the Argonne, Army doctors had operated on his leg five times.

The broken, shattered bones near his left ankle had caused complications. The bullet had damaged the muscles and blood vessels in his lower leg. The Germans had shot him twice more in the same leg. The infection that set in did not help.

Hobbling along the Meuse-Argonne battlefield with the now famous Sergeant York with a makeshift splint and a rigged tourniquet almost cost Phillip his left foot. The doctors would have amputated the foot, were it not for Genero’s stubbornness.

Since Genero was a participant in the one of bravest feats of arms in American history, he was a minor celebrity. The doctors gave this wounded corporal more latitude than they normally allowed to an enlisted patient.

In May, the chief surgeon in Philadelphia decided that they’d done all that they could without taking the left leg below the knee. Genero was not ready for full release. Since he was a minor hero and lived near Carlisle Barracks, the doctor shipped him to Rehabilitation Hospital No. 31 for several weeks of outpatient care.

When Genero arrived in Carlisle, a huge crowd from the town assembled to greet him. The presence of family and friends overwhelmed him. As the medics helped him off the train, he glimpsed the beautiful ridges surrounding Carlisle for the first time in a year and a half. When Phillip saw his handsome baby son in the arms of his lovely wife, standing framed against the spectacular green hills, his eyes filled with tears.

In the Argonne, Phillip had resigned himself to his own mortality. He never expected to make it back to his valley alive. Yet here he was.

He remembered Pvt. Koronopolis. Like all survivors, Phillip felt pangs of guilt. When he looked into Marta’s gorgeous brown eyes and saw the love she had for him, the guilt passed—for the moment.

The lively and boisterous crowd loved that a man from Carlisle had acquitted himself so gallantly. The mayor of Carlisle gave a fiery speech. Father Callahan spoke to the crowd in a more solemn tone. Friends and family enjoyed a fabulous welcome home party.

The mayor finally loaded Phillip, Marta, and their boy into a 1916 Model T hack. He considered it an honor to accompany this war hero and his tiny family home to their farmhouse near Waggoners Gap.

Phillip’s first view of his farmhouse caused a second bout of intense emotion. As the hack approached their home, Phillip balanced his son in his lap. Marta held Phillip’s hand in a powerful loving grip.

Once home, a neighbor stopped by to pick up little Phillip for the night. Marta made this arrangement because she wanted a very special homecoming. When they were alone, they held each other tenderly and began to slowly share their intimacy. The passion and the need brought them to a culmination too quickly.

Lying together in their bed, they laughed and giggled at their awkwardness.

“Honey, that was way too fast. I guess we’ll just have to practice more,” Phillip said.

“Phillip, I’ve missed you so. I need you so bad. Sometimes, since the baby was born, I thought I’d go crazy thinking about you,” Marta said, fondling her husband and renewing his great passion for her.

“When, exactly, will Mrs. Rice bring little Phillip back?” Phillip asked slyly.

“I hope you don’t mind, honey, but I wanted you all to myself this first night. She’ll bring him back tomorrow morning. Is it OK? I know you love little Phillip,” Marta said as she ran her tongue slowly along the inner surface of Phillip’s left ear. “But I have needs too.”

Marta’s tactics had the desired effect on her husband. Phillip began to gently touch her and stroke her, in all the ways that intensified her passion.

Marta’s eyes dissolved into that sexy, dreamy, far-away look, the one that drove him wild. Without stopping for an instant, Phillip brought his lips very close to Marta’s sensitive right ear. As his tongue began tracing little, wet lines, he whispered, “Baby, I love that you named little Phillip after me, but we have to find something else to call him. It’s too confusing.”

Marta was almost over the edge, her eyes were closed, and she concentrated on the pleasure that Phillip’s fingers were giving her. She moaned deeply. “Anything, baby—anything! I’d do anything for you!”