Dear Tom:

While in the hands of the Navy Medical Department, I made a startling discovery: They can be conned, if you do it right.

I was lying in a bed in the intensive care unit of the USS Repose. I had tubes hanging out of a number of natural and man-made openings in my body.

On about the fifth day, as we steamed toward Subic Bay, the doctor came to me and announced that it was time to remove the tubes from my chest and back. He managed to get me into a sitting position on the bed with my legs hanging over the side. He sat beside me, removed the tape which held the tubes in place, got a grip on the tube, looked sheepishly at me and then said, "This may smart just a bit."

I expected him to pull a small tube from my chest, but when he quickly yanked it out, a piece of plastic hose the size of a large horse's pen is emerged! I damned near died right there!

I sat there trembling all over and was unaware of his removing the tube from my back.

"Hurt?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Doc. I'm trembling like this from the sheer emotional exhaustion of having watched a real artist at work."

He laughed and asked, "Can I get you something, Captain?"

I looked at him and said, "Doc, in all these years of being a Marine, I've never asked the Navy for a drink. But after that ordeal, don't you think I'm entitled to one?"

"Of course," he routinely said. "You're entitled to two per day: Two miniatures of whiskey or brandy, or two beers, or one of each."

I stared in disbelief. "Why the hell didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"You didn't ask. Captain. You didn't ask."

I got the feeling I had been cheated, so I asked: "I've been aboard for five days. Can I have what I've got backlogged?"

He smiled benevolently and said, "I'm not that gullible. What's your pleasure?"

"One of each."

Soon there appeared a miniature of whiskey with a prescription label, just like a drugstore. I drank half of it and kept the other half as evidence of my tale. It sits on my mantlepiece today.

I left the ship a couple of days later and was flown to Clark AFB. Once established there, I informed the doctors of my special medication requirements, but they were not as sympathetic as the Navy.

Finally, arriving in Key West, Florida, I was taken from the Air Force and placed back in the care of the Navy.

By this time I had wasted away to 150 pounds - skin and bones for my large frame. The Navy doctor expressed a great deal of concern over my emaciated state.

I saw an opening.

I sighed deeply, exhaled audibly, and said, "Doc, there was something in my younger days I used to do which definitely put weight on me. That's beer. I can't stand the taste of it now, but if you feel it will help, I'll be willing to suffer through it."

He looked at me in astonishment. "A Marine who doesn't like beer! I thought liking beer was a requirement for enlistment."

He prescribed a quart and a half per day.

A few minutes later a corpsman came in with a frosty can of Falstaff (Well, you can't have everything), popped the top and said, "I ain't believing this, Captain."

"Doc, I hate that stuff," I said in an effort to play the convincing role and ensure the Navy would not get the impression I was enjoying it and thus terminate such pleasurable medication. "Just put it on the table and I'll sip on it occasionally."

No, sir! That's medication, and I have to witness you take it."

"Well, get comfortable. You're gonna be here a while," I said as I went back to reading my book.

"Aw, come on, Captain. I got things to do."

I took a small sip and grimaced in complete revulsion.

"Promise me that you'll finish it, and I'll go about my chores."

I promised. He left. I grabbed the beer and drowned it with gusto and started thinking about the other two which would come later in the day.