(But if you want your you know what removed, your surgery gets top priority.)
yep, sounds bout right. Was trying to get closest VA hospital 200 miles from me to have a decades old chunk of shrapnel removed from my leg as a fast growing tumor was encasing and growing around it. They looked at it and scheduled my surgery 11 months out. Took only a month before it grew so fast I couldn’t walk anymore on the leg and had to have it removed at a local hospital on my dime. Took 10 days from Dr visit to Surgeon consult to getting it removed compared to VA’s 8 months from time I complained about it to VA to them scheduling me for the surgery. I guess if I had wanted to be turned into a eunoch they woulda acted faster, but combat wounds ... nawwww, back of the line trooper.
“They looked at it and scheduled my surgery 11 months out. Took only a month before it grew so fast I couldn’t walk anymore on the leg and had to have it removed at a local hospital on my dime.”
I know it doesn’t help, but that really hacks me off. You should go congressional, or even IG, and get those scumbag bureaucrats to cover your expenses.
Mistreatment of military men by those who don’t serve is nothing new, either.
When the British army first issued ID cards, they grabbed up the first private they could find at HQ, made one up for him, then sent copies worldwide as samples. Ever since, the British enlisted man has been known as Thomas Atkins.
Rudyard Kipling had a special connection to Tommy Atkins, much like Bob Hope had to our GIs.
TOMMY
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that Tommy sees!