This Thanksgiving day will be also to remember with affection the Nam Medics sving my butt in the field despite being under fire.
With special thanks to Nam Medics
Walt Harvester
Jerry Newton
Walther and his platoon were deep embe dded in enemy territory as a “wet-team” in search of enemy’s coordination centers and Vietcong high rang officer’s dwellings holding fat documents relating to their war and maps indicating the whereabouts of their anthills, take every piece of paper for the translators and eliminate anything standing, crawling or surrendering.
Their unit wasn’t equipped with padded comfortable transport so a prisoner didn’t bang his head on a steel wall.
They will come dry and go away wet, a lot of blood was spilled and they always hoped wasn’t theirs.
They were as well as spotters for any heavy in equipment enemy column, so the flyboys waiting in base could come and sweep the road clean with high explosive ones for the armor and napalm for roast the vermin.
They had been at it for a week now, the rations long gone and forced to live from the land, which in a jungle isn’t too much, considering that if a wild boar wandered fifty yards from you it couldn’t be shot, the noise could had disturb the neighborhood.
Hunger had Boom-Boom; the only one with a Home Depot size stomach, bitching about how many worms was needed to make an omelet so it could be count as a lunch.
“You make fire,” Mister Lee would say, “and I can make you a tortilla with everything on them”
“A tortilla?” Sereno would ask surprised, “anyone mention tortillas?”
“No you dumb Mexican,” Boom-Boom was working on his frustration, “Mister Lee here offer to cook…”
“Are you crazy? we can’t just go and make fire, cook and don’t invite a few Charlie’s to join in…”
“We can make camp near the road over there,” Walther cut in, “with a perfect view of the camouflaged bamboo bridge.”
They hadn’t seen black pajamas for two days now, the Cong tended not to have people milling around to be spotted by surveillance flying by the Americans near a certain piece of land that would be used to move their war furniture.
That certain piece of land, Roscoe had got in the radio included a bamboo bridge that the spotters couldn’t find.
If the information were good, the circus would be passing through with a few T26 tanks with a tiny fire stick like a fat bird with an erection, followed by the trucks loaded with war paraphernalia, explosives, ammo, fuel and a few hundred of fresh cannon fodder to be dissected by imperialist selected carpet bombing.
For some time now they had begun to hear about dominoes falling in the Asian theater, but that people talking most had a lousy intelligence around them it was mahjong and they weren’t falling anywhere.
They were tired, hungry and in a very foul mode.
It was good that those folk eat their dogs, or them would have given them away as they had sneak through bivouac a few times to reach this spot that on the map looked about four inches from the Laos border and not so difficult to find if you only follow the low terrain between mountains, hills, sierras which of course was where the slanted eyes were milling around, so it was climb up and down being carefully not to dislodge any stool pigeon of a rolling stone to tell them down there that a big moose was on the lose, oh that’s right! No moose here.
Kenny, a southerner with a lot of fresh air life between his toes called the attention of every body of what was an apparently old military truck wreck at the bottom of the ravine just under the north side of the bridge which had gone through some high shrubbery which come piece of metal or glass had reflected the west descending sun for a fleeing moment when a weak breeze had pushed out of the way some leaves.
They could all discern, although vaguely, the twisted bulk metal distinctively showing a truck’s axle with a double set of tires.
The ravine, under the summer heat and long before any monsoon rain, was bare of water and was now just a lot of whitened rocks and pebbles, roughly ran from north to south (or vice-versa if you are in arguing mood) with a width of thirty yards. Down there the bamboo bridge was well fifty yards high up.
The falling truck people, if anybody other than the driver were there, would have gone to St. Peter on impact.
From the road it wasn’t feasible, not even for a mountain goat, to descend the nearly vertical drop from the road above, and life of their own for the Cong being cheap, Walther knew that they hadn’t giving second thought about coming to se if the poor devils had life left. After all they deserved to die for wrecking the truck.
They could go down from their sloped side covered by trees and shrubbery, but once on the ravine it was open country all the exposed fifty yards and it couldn’t be risked under daylight.
“Kenny,” said Walther, “when the sun goes down go see what’s there, okay?”
“Okay boss”
“Mister Lee, before Kenny goes search with the night sight to make sure he doesn’t got exposed and keep at it until he return”
Mister Lee just nodded.
Boom-Boom had already found a place for his beloved 50mm bang-bang helped by Sereno that had dug a one-man foxhole deep enough to stand on it down to the waist giving the shooter a one hundred eighty degrees of field fire, without the encumbering of a lying down flat on his belly position.
Roscoe had cranked the sick radio with some kind of CPR because it was purring contently with static as to show her master that his fingers had retained the lovely touch to make her ready and willing.
With Boom-Boom still bitching about food, hunger, mess hall and Mexican-fucking-tortillas, they all had spread taking defensive positions, slumbering down to catch some Z’s and recharge their low energy levels.
Walther had dealt the last of the dry snake meat, which some schmuck had been telling it taste like pork without ever have a bit in his mouth, and handfuls of dry berries and nuts.
Everything going in their sweating like a pig bodies was dry, and a rain shower would be most welcomed as the smell of unwashed buddies started to tell.
Relentlessly, the sun was pocking its hot fingers through every little opening of the jungle, sometimes hitting you in the back like the needle of a first timer nurse practicing her shots.
That sun must have been a cousin of the one over Death Valley back home, because it seemed to be nailed fast on the above sky, it wasn’t moving.
But even uncomfortable times come to an end, and somebody ditched that hot bitch down the horizon and breeze move kind of cool when naked shadows came out to play with each other giving a damn if you were looking.
Belly up, one could see that a sudden black sky was peppered with fine buckshot made of stars; there wasn’t war, just a kind of eternal silence.
When dark was the color of that tunnel but without the light at the end of it, Mister Lee whispered to Kenny that the coast was clear but for a few furry little tings scurrying on the ground and a few perched on tree branches.
The very thick soft rubber under Kenny boots gave the heavy big man the stalk going of a ghost.
Now and then they could hear weak sounds, like a small twig creaking without breaking or a small pebble being dislodged among many other weak sounds.
If you knew what to hear for you could follow Kenny, any other, even a scared out of his wits sentry in the dark, the weak noses would sound like a muffled cacophony of a spread orchestra going mad.
They saw Kenny like a shadow among the shadows moving like the reaper going to fetch itself another praying sucker for a horse.
Half and hour after they heard climbing back under Mister Lee night-sight scope blessings, he arrived heavy breathing as he was carrying a bulky bundle on each of his arms.
Carefully he put them down and everyone could hear the familiar sound of canned something.
Food!!!…and, plenty of it to even make a dent in Boom-Boom’s hunger.
Kenny had found their El Dorado, after so many days.
It wasn’t canned food like home, but some of it tasted shrimps, or beans, or fruit or bon appetite everyone!
“Casualties?” asked Walther.
“Just one, the driver, his bones picked clean by ants I suppose” answered Kenny
Then, the knives went busy opening the can tops and the men eat like it was the last supper, what they said about the death of one is the bread of another?
Mister Lee found a soft place back a big tree and dug a deep hole to bury the empty cans and the canvas that Kenny had taken from the wreck.
After everyone had returned to their previous post, they settled down to wait.
From Sereno’s post came a fart deep croak.
Boom-Boom couldn’t hold to tease his buddy with a hissing whisper to everybody “the dumb mex don’t know that today ain’t cinco de mayo…”
“Bomm-Boom,” Sereno hissed back, “put another of those cans in tour mouth”
“Somebody watch? I want to take a wink” said Mister Lee.
“Same here” that was Kenny.
“Roscoe, north, I will take south, the rest shut up and sleep” Walther own hissing didn’t left any space to arguing.
The night after a while took over as mostly of the day creatures went to sleep while for the nocturnal ones it was time to go to the strip club.
Time passed slowly, only disturbed once by the flurry of a howl wings and the shriek of a mouse learning at last how to fly under the wings of one.
Walther felt a prickling in his ears and opening the dark plastic lid that covered the luminous face of his watch saw that it was five to twenty-three hundred.
The other has heard it too, or felt the vibration on the ground, the deep bass rumble with a whine of motors climbing in first gear a long road, beyond the curve a mile away and far from where they were scouting.
“Roscoe,” whispered Walther, “get your bag of noise going and tell base they are on standby as from now”
“Will do”
They could se the first vehicles rounding the bend, one, two three T-26 making the head and they went on coming, slowly making now a racket rumbling, like an undecided thunder with a lot of noise but trying to go unnoticed.
By Walther calculation they already had a fifty trucks of all denomination already perched on that road that followed the contours of the mountain, disappearing to his right back the one with the bridge, that connected both sides of a all too deep fissure made eons ago.
The column would then appear as they rounded the near bend almost three hundred yards from the bamboo contraption.
Then, in the middle of what must had been nearly one hundred vehicles a vintage T-34 tank was apparently with a fuel truck in tow.
From the bridge the road was straight ahead for a couple of miles until started again to follow the mountainsides descending after a while under the tree’s canopy of the jungle below.
“Base standing by” Roscoe said.
“Okay, we will wait until all have passed,” said Walther, “when their last one clear the bend back there we call the flyboys, by the time they arrive all will be lined perfectly along the road, it will be like picking ducks on a shooting gallery”
The column moved like a line tired turtles with no hurry whatsoever to get where they were going.
The first T-26 crossed one at the time the precarious looking bridge, and then the trucks, stop, wait for the one in front to cross and go over; stop, wait and go over; by the far away road bend the last truck had turned and no one came after it, “Tell the boys to come over” said Walther.
“Righto” acknowledged Roscoe, “…PappaCharlie here confirm coordinates triple oscar seven seven three niner niner from one one fiver fiver one to one one fiver four…repeat…over”…………“you gotcha, to the right of the three red lights, good hunting…over” “Boss” he said to Walther, “they’re coming…”
“Okay, Kenny, Sereno and Mister Lee get the flash light with the reed hood ready at forty degrees elevation south, maintain a line with thirty yards in between, the flyboys will pick up them and start the barbeque”
As it was, two third of the column had go over the bridge when it was the turn of the T-34 much bigger and much heavier than the little brothers T-26’s.
Walther’s group was reading themselves to get the hell out of there before the fireworks started, by going away by the same way they arrived.
Being the last one, Walther turned around to give a last look when he saw that the T-34 was ready to cross.
It will be some interesting to see he told to himself.
The heavy tank with the fuel truck on a rope almost makes it to the other side. Almost, but not quite.
In a slow motion kind of movement the bridge gave up with a series of sharp bamboo cracks that sounded like shots, then the tank gained momentum and went like a metallic stone pulling the fuel truck behind all the way down were it was bathed in fuel by the ruptured fuel tank and suddenly it was a whoosh upwards that illuminated everything around like it was daylight with something going bang inside the T-34 two hundred yards away that make it to disintegrate like a piñata.
Half turned away, Walther was ready to hit the deck as the blinding light was on and make himself scarce from prying eyes, not that anybody could after losing the night sight looking inside that like a welding light, when a powerful fist hit on his right shoulder slamming him on the ground.
When Walter tried to open his eyes he couldn’t, the arms and legs felt numb and a fat son of a bitch was sitting on his chest.
The taste of blood was filling his mouth like spaghetti tomato sauce, his tongue being the meatball in it.
He was rambling.
“Roscoe,” he heard a very angry Boom-Boom say, “where the fuck’s that chopper?”
Chopper? They can’t call a chopper with bombing going on…Walther felt a wet and cool rag on his forehead, the one doing it had the voice of Mister Lee saying “he got fever, and we have used the last morphine, Roscoe, you sure he gonna make it, that’s a loot of blood he lost…”
Blood? Who was down? He must come up and take back command, why he was down? Why he didn’t hear the flyboys attack? Who was down?
Next time he came around, the fat bastard sitting on his chest was making him to feel it, the shoulder was giving him hell, that’s what had waken him up.
“…and gonna chop the balls of that chopper cowboy if he gets lost again…” that was Boom-Boom again.
Then he heard the whirl-whirl coming fast, and a few moments after a strong wind, like the one coming through the Golden Gate and slap you silly on Sausalito if it found you loitering on Bridgeway street.
Then, a million hands were under him, lifting, and he heard his chest letting go a strange half gurgle half scream of pain, it was him?
At last he could open his eyes half way, his men were around, grunting, carrying somebody between them and he felt a cool metal surface in the back of his body.
The floor moved, up!!! He was in a chopper, if they were going up Kenny and Sereno would riding shot gun on port, and Boom-Boom and Mister Lee on starboard, then, his head was propped between the knees of Roscoe.
A stab on his left arm, “hold his up” somebody said to Roscoe, he tried to look up and vaguely saw Roscoe’s arm up, holding a bag with a tube coming down.
Then he saw him, the Medic, he looked like a Walt, why? Who the hell knows why, but he certainly looked like a Walt, friendly, efficient, his hands doing all the talking.
He didn’t felt anymore that searing pain, perhaps Walt had pumped him full of morph, maybe he was dying, that most be it, and he was dying, why? Who the fuck knows why? He just was tired, want to sleep forever…
Walt started to gentle but firmly to slap his face “stay with me, don’t close your eyes, stay with me”
That easy for you to say pal, Walt, whatever your name is, Walther thought, it is me that’s dying dummy!
Then, to his right, he discovered yet another Medic, this one looked like a Jerry.
“…and the artery is damaged…” Jerry was saying, “…you think they can save is arm?…and a piece of shrapnel is lodged in the top of the right lung…”
“…they better!!!” that was Boom-Boom shouting.
Then, Walt’s face was over his again, “Sir, I haven’t yet lost a wounded, can you make the effort and no ruin my record?” he was smiling.
Jerry didn’t, he doesn’t want to make friend, and if he did and this one died…he didn’t like losing friends.
He tried to smile but he couldn’t, he kept looking at the reassuring and friendly face of Walt as he fell into unconscious clouds.
When Walt and Jerry delivered Walther in the hands of the meat cutters he was in bad shape but alive, Walt’s record bringing wounded from the field was yet to be broken.
Walther and his platoon were deep embe dded in enemy territory as a “wet-team” in search of enemy’s coordination centers and Vietcong high rang officer’s dwellings holding fat documents relating to their war and maps indicating the whereabouts of their anthills, take every piece of paper for the translators and eliminate anything standing, crawling or surrendering.
Their unit wasn’t equipped with padded comfortable transport so a prisoner didn’t bang his head on a steel wall.
They will come dry and go away wet, a lot of blood was spilled and they always hoped wasn’t theirs.
They were as well as spotters for any heavy in equipment enemy column, so the flyboys waiting in base could come and sweep the road clean with high explosive ones for the armor and napalm for roast the vermin.
They had been at it for a week now, the rations long gone and forced to live from the land, which in a jungle isn’t too much, considering that if a wild boar wandered fifty yards from you it couldn’t be shot, the noise could had disturb the neighborhood.
Hunger had Boom-Boom; the only one with a Home Depot size stomach, bitching about how many worms was needed to make an omelet so it could be count as a lunch.
“You make fire,” Mister Lee would say, “and I can make you a tortilla with everything on them”
“A tortilla?” Sereno would ask surprised, “anyone mention tortillas?”
“No you dumb Mexican,” Boom-Boom was working on his frustration, “Mister Lee here offer to cook…”
“Are you crazy? we can’t just go and make fire, cook and don’t invite a few Charlie’s to join in…”
“We can make camp near the road over there,” Walther cut in, “with a perfect view of the camouflaged bamboo bridge.”
They hadn’t seen black pajamas for two days now, the Cong tended not to have people milling around to be spotted by surveillance flying by the Americans near a certain piece of land that would be used to move their war furniture.
That certain piece of land, Roscoe had got in the radio included a bamboo bridge that the spotters couldn’t find.
If the information were good, the circus would be passing through with a few T26 tanks with a tiny fire stick like a fat bird with an erection, followed by the trucks loaded with war paraphernalia, explosives, ammo, fuel and a few hundred of fresh cannon fodder to be dissected by imperialist selected carpet bombing.
For some time now they had begun to hear about dominoes falling in the Asian theater, but that people talking most had a lousy intelligence around them it was mahjong and they weren’t falling anywhere.
They were tired, hungry and in a very foul mode.
It was good that those folk eat their dogs, or them would have given them away as they had sneak through bivouac a few times to reach this spot that on the map looked about four inches from the Laos border and not so difficult to find if you only follow the low terrain between mountains, hills, sierras which of course was where the slanted eyes were milling around, so it was climb up and down being carefully not to dislodge any stool pigeon of a rolling stone to tell them down there that a big moose was on the lose, oh that’s right! No moose here.
Kenny, a southerner with a lot of fresh air life between his toes called the attention of every body of what was an apparently old military truck wreck at the bottom of the ravine just under the north side of the bridge which had gone through some high shrubbery which come piece of metal or glass had reflected the west descending sun for a fleeing moment when a weak breeze had pushed out of the way some leaves.
They could all discern, although vaguely, the twisted bulk metal distinctively showing a truck’s axle with a double set of tires.
The ravine, under the summer heat and long before any monsoon rain, was bare of water and was now just a lot of whitened rocks and pebbles, roughly ran from north to south (or vice-versa if you are in arguing mood) with a width of thirty yards. Down there the bamboo bridge was well fifty yards high up.
The falling truck people, if anybody other than the driver were there, would have gone to St. Peter on impact.
From the road it wasn’t feasible, not even for a mountain goat, to descend the nearly vertical drop from the road above, and life of their own for the Cong being cheap, Walther knew that they hadn’t giving second thought about coming to se if the poor devils had life left. After all they deserved to die for wrecking the truck.
They could go down from their sloped side covered by trees and shrubbery, but once on the ravine it was open country all the exposed fifty yards and it couldn’t be risked under daylight.
“Kenny,” said Walther, “when the sun goes down go see what’s there, okay?”
“Okay boss”
“Mister Lee, before Kenny goes search with the night sight to make sure he doesn’t got exposed and keep at it until he return”
Mister Lee just nodded.
Boom-Boom had already found a place for his beloved 50mm bang-bang helped by Sereno that had dug a one-man foxhole deep enough to stand on it down to the waist giving the shooter a one hundred eighty degrees of field fire, without the encumbering of a lying down flat on his belly position.
Roscoe had cranked the sick radio with some kind of CPR because it was purring contently with static as to show her master that his fingers had retained the lovely touch to make her ready and willing.
With Boom-Boom still bitching about food, hunger, mess hall and Mexican-fucking-tortillas, they all had spread taking defensive positions, slumbering down to catch some Z’s and recharge their low energy levels.
Walther had dealt the last of the dry snake meat, which some schmuck had been telling it taste like pork without ever have a bit in his mouth, and handfuls of dry berries and nuts.
Everything going in their sweating like a pig bodies was dry, and a rain shower would be most welcomed as the smell of unwashed buddies started to tell.
Relentlessly, the sun was pocking its hot fingers through every little opening of the jungle, sometimes hitting you in the back like the needle of a first timer nurse practicing her shots.
That sun must have been a cousin of the one over Death Valley back home, because it seemed to be nailed fast on the above sky, it wasn’t moving.
But even uncomfortable times come to an end, and somebody ditched that hot bitch down the horizon and breeze move kind of cool when naked shadows came out to play with each other giving a damn if you were looking.
Belly up, one could see that a sudden black sky was peppered with fine buckshot made of stars; there wasn’t war, just a kind of eternal silence.
When dark was the color of that tunnel but without the light at the end of it, Mister Lee whispered to Kenny that the coast was clear but for a few furry little tings scurrying on the ground and a few perched on tree branches.
The very thick soft rubber under Kenny boots gave the heavy big man the stalk going of a ghost.
Now and then they could hear weak sounds, like a small twig creaking without breaking or a small pebble being dislodged among many other weak sounds.
If you knew what to hear for you could follow Kenny, any other, even a scared out of his wits sentry in the dark, the weak noses would sound like a muffled cacophony of a spread orchestra going mad.
They saw Kenny like a shadow among the shadows moving like the reaper going to fetch itself another praying sucker for a horse.
Half and hour after they heard climbing back under Mister Lee night-sight scope blessings, he arrived heavy breathing as he was carrying a bulky bundle on each of his arms.
Carefully he put them down and everyone could hear the familiar sound of canned something.
Food!!!…and, plenty of it to even make a dent in Boom-Boom’s hunger.
Kenny had found their El Dorado, after so many days.
It wasn’t canned food like home, but some of it tasted shrimps, or beans, or fruit or bon appetite everyone!
“Casualties?” asked Walther.
“Just one, the driver, his bones picked clean by ants I suppose” answered Kenny
Then, the knives went busy opening the can tops and the men eat like it was the last supper, what they said about the death of one is the bread of another?
Mister Lee found a soft place back a big tree and dug a deep hole to bury the empty cans and the canvas that Kenny had taken from the wreck.
After everyone had returned to their previous post, they settled down to wait.
From Sereno’s post came a fart deep croak.
Boom-Boom couldn’t hold to tease his buddy with a hissing whisper to everybody “the dumb mex don’t know that today ain’t cinco de mayo…”
“Bomm-Boom,” Sereno hissed back, “put another of those cans in tour mouth”
“Somebody watch? I want to take a wink” said Mister Lee.
“Same here” that was Kenny.
“Roscoe, north, I will take south, the rest shut up and sleep” Walther own hissing didn’t left any space to arguing.
The night after a while took over as mostly of the day creatures went to sleep while for the nocturnal ones it was time to go to the strip club.
Time passed slowly, only disturbed once by the flurry of a howl wings and the shriek of a mouse learning at last how to fly under the wings of one.
Walther felt a prickling in his ears and opening the dark plastic lid that covered the luminous face of his watch saw that it was five to twenty-three hundred.
The other has heard it too, or felt the vibration on the ground, the deep bass rumble with a whine of motors climbing in first gear a long road, beyond the curve a mile away and far from where they were scouting.
“Roscoe,” whispered Walther, “get your bag of noise going and tell base they are on standby as from now”
“Will do”
They could se the first vehicles rounding the bend, one, two three T-26 making the head and they went on coming, slowly making now a racket rumbling, like an undecided thunder with a lot of noise but trying to go unnoticed.
By Walther calculation they already had a fifty trucks of all denomination already perched on that road that followed the contours of the mountain, disappearing to his right back the one with the bridge, that connected both sides of a all too deep fissure made eons ago.
The column would then appear as they rounded the near bend almost three hundred yards from the bamboo contraption.
Then, in the middle of what must had been nearly one hundred vehicles a vintage T-34 tank was apparently with a fuel truck in tow.
From the bridge the road was straight ahead for a couple of miles until started again to follow the mountainsides descending after a while under the tree’s canopy of the jungle below.
“Base standing by” Roscoe said.
“Okay, we will wait until all have passed,” said Walther, “when their last one clear the bend back there we call the flyboys, by the time they arrive all will be lined perfectly along the road, it will be like picking ducks on a shooting gallery”
The column moved like a line tired turtles with no hurry whatsoever to get where they were going.
The first T-26 crossed one at the time the precarious looking bridge, and then the trucks, stop, wait for the one in front to cross and go over; stop, wait and go over; by the far away road bend the last truck had turned and no one came after it, “Tell the boys to come over” said Walther.
“Righto” acknowledged Roscoe, “…PappaCharlie here confirm coordinates triple oscar seven seven three niner niner from one one fiver fiver one to one one fiver four…repeat…over”…………“you gotcha, to the right of the three red lights, good hunting…over” “Boss” he said to Walther, “they’re coming…”
“Okay, Kenny, Sereno and Mister Lee get the flash light with the reed hood ready at forty degrees elevation south, maintain a line with thirty yards in between, the flyboys will pick up them and start the barbeque”
As it was, two third of the column had go over the bridge when it was the turn of the T-34 much bigger and much heavier than the little brothers T-26’s.
Walther’s group was reading themselves to get the hell out of there before the fireworks started, by going away by the same way they arrived.
Being the last one, Walther turned around to give a last look when he saw that the T-34 was ready to cross.
It will be some interesting to see he told to himself.
The heavy tank with the fuel truck on a rope almost makes it to the other side. Almost, but not quite.
In a slow motion kind of movement the bridge gave up with a series of sharp bamboo cracks that sounded like shots, then the tank gained momentum and went like a metallic stone pulling the fuel truck behind all the way down were it was bathed in fuel by the ruptured fuel tank and suddenly it was a whoosh upwards that illuminated everything around like it was daylight with something going bang inside the T-34 two hundred yards away that make it to disintegrate like a piñata.
Half turned away, Walther was ready to hit the deck as the blinding light was on and make himself scarce from prying eyes, not that anybody could after losing the night sight looking inside that like a welding light, when a powerful fist hit on his right shoulder slamming him on the ground.
When Walter tried to open his eyes he couldn’t, the arms and legs felt numb and a fat son of a bitch was sitting on his chest.
The taste of blood was filling his mouth like spaghetti tomato sauce, his tongue being the meatball in it.
He was rambling.
“Roscoe,” he heard a very angry Boom-Boom say, “where the fuck’s that chopper?”
Chopper? They can’t call a chopper with bombing going on…Walther felt a wet and cool rag on his forehead, the one doing it had the voice of Mister Lee saying “he got fever, and we have used the last morphine, Roscoe, you sure he gonna make it, that’s a loot of blood he lost…”
Blood? Who was down? He must come up and take back command, why he was down? Why he didn’t hear the flyboys attack? Who was down?
Next time he came around, the fat bastard sitting on his chest was making him to feel it, the shoulder was giving him hell, that’s what had waken him up.
“…and gonna chop the balls of that chopper cowboy if he gets lost again…” that was Boom-Boom again.
Then he heard the whirl-whirl coming fast, and a few moments after a strong wind, like the one coming through the Golden Gate and slap you silly on Sausalito if it found you loitering on Bridgeway street.
Then, a million hands were under him, lifting, and he heard his chest letting go a strange half gurgle half scream of pain, it was him?
At last he could open his eyes half way, his men were around, grunting, carrying somebody between them and he felt a cool metal surface in the back of his body.
The floor moved, up!!! He was in a chopper, if they were going up Kenny and Sereno would riding shot gun on port, and Boom-Boom and Mister Lee on starboard, then, his head was propped between the knees of Roscoe.
A stab on his left arm, “hold his up” somebody said to Roscoe, he tried to look up and vaguely saw Roscoe’s arm up, holding a bag with a tube coming down.
Then he saw him, the Medic, he looked like a Walt, why? Who the hell knows why, but he certainly looked like a Walt, friendly, efficient, his hands doing all the talking.
He didn’t felt anymore that searing pain, perhaps Walt had pumped him full of morph, maybe he was dying, that most be it, and he was dying, why? Who the fuck knows why? He just was tired, want to sleep forever…
Walt started to gentle but firmly to slap his face “stay with me, don’t close your eyes, stay with me”
That easy for you to say pal, Walt, whatever your name is, Walther thought, it is me that’s dying dummy!
Then, to his right, he discovered yet another Medic, this one looked like a Jerry.
“…and the artery is damaged…” Jerry was saying, “…you think they can save is arm?…and a piece of shrapnel is lodged in the top of the right lung…”
“…they better!!!” that was Boom-Boom shouting.
Then, Walt’s face was over his again, “Sir, I haven’t yet lost a wounded, can you make the effort and no ruin my record?” he was smiling.
Jerry didn’t, he doesn’t want to make friend, and if he did and this one died…he didn’t like losing friends.
He tried to smile but he couldn’t, he kept looking at the reassuring and friendly face of Walt as he fell into unconscious clouds.
When Walt and Jerry delivered Walther in the hands of the meat cutters he was in bad shape but alive, Walt’s record bringing wounded from the field was yet to be broken.
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Reviewed by Jerry Newton
11/22/2007
Hey Georg, you took me back 37 years, some tears, some anger and finally a little relief from knowing it wasn't all in vain, because more of them made it home than didn't. I spend many a sleepless nights pondering how many left my hands to end up with their names on that long black Wall; and when sleep does come the nightmares remind me of the ones that secured a spot on it as I cradled them in my arms. Thanks for the moving story.
Your new friend down in Texas, Jerry Newton
A story filled with powerful hard hitting truths, bless all of the field medics, who saved so many lives...
Carole~
Reviewed by LadyJtalks LadyJzTalkZone
11/21/2007
A Great story and tribute to those who made a difference in a true hell hole. I've heard some say that we have so many more wounded coming home in this war and i believe it's because these same men and women carry more paper clips now. Thank you for sharing this and giving many more to be grateful for. Lady J
Thank you Georg. Us guys who flew those birds prided ourselves in not losing anyone between the field and the Division aid station, no matter what measures it took. One time, with a chopper full of wounded, one guy had a nicked carotid artery, and I couldn't hold it all the way in to base because the others needed attention. All I had to do the job for me was a paper clip. It worked.
Thank God for Medics, who still save soldiers lives, and many others, each and every day. And I hope each and every one of them has a joyous, peaceful, Thanksgiving Day.
God bless the field medics, who saved many lives under terrible conditons: it's a thousand wonders many more of our men didn't die of massive blood loss and infection. Thanks to those terrified medics, doing the best they could, they survived...God bless you, too, Georg, and thank you for your service: welcome home, soldier, welcome home. You take us to Nam and make us see how it was...well done.
Powerful, hardhitting write, Georg; very well penned! BRAVO! God bless our medics who put their lives on the line to save others, particularly in battle-scarred areas!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :(
With special thanks to Nam Medics
