The best part of my job as secretary in the Neurosurgery clinic at the VA Hospital in Little Rock was talking to veterans. Most were nice, seeking a friendly face and relief from back or neck pain. Some carried brain tumors. Veterans came from all over Arkansas and surrounding states.
 
Files displaying a large red POW stamp made me pause. One day I allowed a WWII prisoner of war veteran to wait in my office when he arrived early for his appointment. He sat out of the way in the corner, and we talked as I prepared for clinic.
 
During that time a man came in my office demanding admittance to the hospital. Tall and flabby, he wore a sleeveless T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, long hair, and tattoos. Pulling a chair to my desk, he moved close beside me. “I’ve been shot five times saving lives in Vietnam. Why, I’ve even received a purple heart. I’ve sacrificed two years of my life for my country. They owe me. I am one hundred percent disabled, and I’m in pain. I demand to be admitted.”
 
 “Only a doctor can admit you after examination,” I replied. The man left, saying he would be back.
 
The WWII veteran shook his head. “Mrs. Norma, he’s pulling your leg. Soldiers who’ve done all he said don’t brag about it. They don’t want to talk about it.
 
The hospital kept him overnight but never admitted him.