U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL

I parked my car in the usual space at the side of the BOQ and headed up to my room. I was stopped at the top of the stairs by a new sign.

“No BOQ foot traffic on the second BOQ deck between 1900 and 2000 hours.” I read it aloud and walked toward my room. I stopped as I looked at the once gray-painted firewall separating the female and male sections of the BOQ. There was now a life-size full-figure photograph of a handsome woman affixed to a new sheet of plaster board. I got a little closer as I had a sense of familiarity with the woman. Who was she? Where had I seen that face before? Why was her photo completely occupying the firewall in the BOQ? It was a black-and-white photo with the lady in a cocktail dress. Her proportions were perfect. The top of the dress had a square cut-out accentuating her cleavage and her slight smile suggested perfect teeth. The hem stopped just above the knee and her lower legs ended in sequined low heels. I could imagine a color image and thoughts of Dorothy’s red shoes from the Wizard of Oz popped into my head.

I looked at my watch. The sign had warned that the hallway was off limits to all BOQ personnel from 7-to-8. It was 6:30 and I went to my room removed my uniform and plopped myself on my bed with this month’s issue of Anesthesiology.

Within a short time I heard an unfamiliar sound. “Whooooosh. Thwuck!” I sat up and there was silence. What the hell was that? I went back to my journal. This time I heard a sound like a plucked bass fiddle string followed again by “Whooooosh. Thwuck!” I opened the door at start of the next twang noise and almost walked into the flight path of a triple-bladed hunting arrow. ‘Whooooosh” was the sound as it blurred past me. “Thwuck” as the arrow impaled the forehead of the lovely lady posted on the firewall. There were three arrows in the woman’s head. The sound on impact seemed amplified by the tiny space between the plaster board and the firewall door separating the male side of the BOQ from the female side. Dr. Fulton Portnoy Blivitz was dressed in olive drab fatigues and cap with his face caked with green and black tactical make-up. He seemed oblivious to my presence as he strung another arrow in his bow. I looked at the angry facial expression on the archer as he focused on the target. Now I remembered the woman. No wonder she was familiar. Blivitz had shown me pictures of his family at our O-Club dinners. The firewall print was his wife. He seemed oblivious to my presence in my doorway. I moved out a few inches but had to literally dive back into my room just as the next “Whooooosh” was beginning its flight toward the vulnerable photograph.