Military Hospital
In no uncertain terms was he told by Dr. Gwen Jones that he will not be able to speak properly again. A moment of absolute silence. He tried speaking, but his speech was slurred, just as it had been for the past week. Exasperated, he motioned a nurse to get him some writing material.
“Why?” he wrote on the paper he received.
Dr. Jones said: “The helicopter crash caused injury to your neck. The condition is called ‘dysarthria’ - weakness or paralysis of the speech muscles. That neck injury is the cause of your speech impairment.”
He took a few moments to digest this. His future was obvious, but he had to confirm -
“Does it mean I’ll have to leave the US Special Forces?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
This little chat with Dr. Jones kept playing in his mind all day. A six-year-career had met an abrupt end. He still had to spend a month more in the hospital to get all his injuries treated. His speech impairment was frustrating, and the smart nurses had kept a writing pad, a stack of blank papers, and a pen beside his bed to keep his frustration somewhat at bay. He filled the first page with random scrawls, with an occasional “I can’t speak” popping up among the chaos. Inability to speak properly was not easy to accept.
Of course, as he was from the military, it was only a matter of time until his mental strength kicked in. Those who join the armed forces are already physically and mentally strong - they become even stronger after the rigorous training. So, instead of resenting his plight, he resolved to make the best out of it. He did the usual - physiotherapy, meditation, and yoga. Not being able to talk, however, had brought him closer to a form of expression which he hadn’t explored or liked before - writing. This beautiful medium opened up a plethora of opportunities, and he embraced it with gratitude. Writing acted as a therapy - a really good one at that - and amplified the effects of meditation and yoga. A full recovery - marred only by his loss of speech - was certain.
It didn’t matter that he couldn’t speak - he could write, and he considered this to be his greatest boon.
While he rested in the hospital, biding his time until he recovered fully, his colleagues were busy planning a surprise for him. Due to his speech impairment, he couldn’t remain in the military any longer. He was set to receive an Honorable Discharge in a formal ceremony in the upcoming month. Keeping this in mind, his colleagues had decided to make his departure memorable. After observing his habits and brainstorming for days, they zeroed in on a fantastic plan. They intended to sum up his entire military career in something small, and nothing suited their plan better than the farewell cake.
The Honorable Discharge Ceremony
The initial moments of his Honorable Discharge ceremony passed in a daze - he had to force himself to concentrate on what the officer at the dais was saying. He only caught tiny bits of his speech - “...brave gentleman...outstanding pilot...helicopter...tea...”
He was awoken from this daze by a strong thump on his back.
“Cheer up, Patrick. It’s cake time!” said a colleague named Jack.
Patrick looked around, trying to get back to reality. Of course, the cake!
“Look, we know you love writing, especially after the accident, and we’ve hidden six letters on this cake, as your served in the military for six years. Find them out!” said another colleague whose name was Paul.
“Yeah, we’ve summed up your entire military life on this teeny-tiny cake. Pretty small, eh?” quipped someone behind him, and laughter ensued.
The cake was magnificent and very carefully designed. At its very center was a cocktail glass whose base was buried in the icing. The glass had an elegant “P” printed on it and was filled with a yellow liquid - seemingly wine. The cake’s circular top had a huge “H” written on it with red icing, enclosed in a larger circle of the same color - a nice helipad - and the base of the cocktail glass was buried at its center. A rosy red ribbon was wound around the side of the cake, and the knot looked like an “R”.
Patrick smiled. He hadn’t expected such a beautiful farewell. In that brief moment, tears threatened to well up in his eyes. He was filled with immense gratitude. He thanked God profusely for giving him such amazing friends. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he blinked the tears away and focused on the task at hand - finding the six letters.
A writing pad with a paper attached was thrust into his hands and a pen came hurling at his chest - “supplied” swiftly by Jack - which he caught deftly.
“First off, thanks guys. Thank you, my comrades, from the bottom of my heart. This was totally unexpected.
Well, what do we have here... an interesting cake... Is that cocktail-glass filled with beer or some other concoction?” he wrote.
Paul stood beside him and read all of this aloud for everyone to hear.
“Nah Pat, that’s yellow tea,” said Jack.
Patrick laughed heartily - it didn’t matter how the sound emerged from his mouth. They knew he was laughing, and they joined in. They had purposely put tea in there, and he knew it. He did not drink alcohol, and often used yellow tea as a substitute for wine or beer during official parties. And for unofficial parties, which were hosted by one of them occasionally, he always kept a bottle of yellow tea (or lemonade, sometimes) handy.
“I can already see three letters - ‘P’, ‘H’, and ‘R’. Ah, P is the first letter of my name and the nickname I gave to my favorite helicopter - Python. Hmm, that H is obviously a helipad. R? What’s R for?
Oh wait, I see a Y. That’s the partially buried cocktail glass! Wow, ingenious!
Uh, are you sure the yellow liquid in there is tea?”
He tried to write as fast as his thoughts and often ended up leaving out a small chunk of information in the process. It didn’t matter to his comrades, though - they understood him perfectly.
“Yep, that’s tea. Yellow tea. But the “yellow” doesn’t matter. We just used yellow tea because you don’t drink alcohol, and we didn’t want to add wine or beer to that glass. Tea matters.” said Paul.
“Someone gag Paul before he gives anything else away” came a mock snarl.
“Thank you for not adding alcohol to that glass.
Oh, so you included the fact that I don’t drink… excellent! I remember how y’all bullied me about it… and that photograph of me holding a cocktail glass very similar to this one, filled with my staple alcohol substitute - yellow tea. Lovely!
Hmm… tea, you say?”
Patrick stopped writing at this point, thinking deeply. Then it hit him - “Oh boy, T, the letter T!” he wrote excitedly.
“We didn’t gag Paul on time, eh?”
“Yeah,” wrote Patrick, and chuckled. Again, the emergent sound didn’t matter - the others chuckled too, and someone tried to choke Paul playfully.
“So that’s P, Y, T, H, and R. One letter left. Hints please!”
“Hidden in plain sight, pal. Uh, you’ve gone over it already, to be honest…” said Paul, one hand protecting his neck and the other hand trying to fend off incoming hands that wanted to throttle him.
“Gone over it already? I see… The cocktail glass is definitely a Y - you wouldn’t bury its base otherwise. Uh, the helipad is an H -”
He stopped. He had heard a stifled laugh. The others noticed this pause, and someone tried to gag Paul again. Clearly, thought Patrick, the helipad is the missing link.
He continued writing: “The helipad? Hmm, what’s in the helipad? Just an H enclosed in a… in a circle…”
He paused. Around him, everyone held their breath as if they were little kids trying their best not to reveal a secret that threatened to burst out if they exhaled.
“Hey, did you consider that circle as an O, by any chance?” wrote Patrick, a sense of excitement coming over him.
“Yes we did,” said Jack through gritted teeth, and proceeded to squeeze the life out of Paul’s neck.
*
“Wow, so P, Y, T, H, O, and R sum up my military life? I still haven’t understood what R signifies…” wrote Patrick after they had finished eating the cake.
“R is like - it’s like the end. It’s the last letter of ‘helicopter’, and the first letter of ‘retirement’. We wanted to mark the end of a significant and dashing career of an equally dashing helicopter pilot, and Paul here suggested the letter R with this reasoning. We listened to him only because he’s another writer, like you.” explained Jack. “Kinda regretting it, not gonna lie...”
Patrick listened attentively and smiled as he wrote: “But that’s beautiful! How touching! Thank you Paul!”
He visualized the cake in his mind and went over the six letters once again - P on the cocktail glass… Y was the glass itself… “T” was filled in the glass… H and O of the helipad… and the stylish R-shaped knot of the red ribbon…
A wild thought occurred to him - what if… what if he changed his name? What if he used these six letters and created a name? These letters were very dear to him… He made up his mind.
“Lads guess what…” wrote Patrick, pausing for Jack to relay his message to everyone.
“I’m planning to change my name after all that happened today.”
This unexpected announcement caught everyone by surprise. Jack looked at him incredulously and couldn’t help saying: “You what?!”
Patrick grinned and wrote:
“This special cake means a lot to me. I am very moved by your efforts to make this day truly memorable for me. Today I have lost a job which is very dear to my heart, but I still have you gentlemen as my best buddies, and my precious ability to write. I will remember this day, the cake, my military career, and the times we had together - but without resentment.
I leave the US Special Forces today with my head held high. Those letters which you put on the cake are of great significance to me - I shall make them eternal by using them in my name. I wish to keep today's memory alive forever - from today onward, call me PYTHOR.”
Jack whooped after reading the word “PYTHOR” aloud, and others joined in by clapping and whistling.
Paul brought an electric kettle from somewhere and began pouring a steaming yellow liquid into Y-shaped cocktail glasses.
“It’s tea, yellow tea,” he said with a grin, with an air of dispelling doubts, even though Patrick knew what the liquid was perfectly well. Once everybody had a glass in their hand, Paul raised his glass above his head, intending to propose a toast. After making sure that all glasses were raised, he looked into Patrick’s eyes with pride, and yelled: “To Pythor!”
“To PYTHOR!” they all bellowed, their booming voices echoing in the hall.
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