As a medic, the very first guy I patch up is a case of friendly fire. We had called in a Hunter/Killer team. Hunter’s a Loach, a light observation chopper–he scouts out the area,them he calls in Killer, the Cobra gun ship who’s got rockets and mini-guns. Loach comes in and we wave. We’ve got a machine gun team up on a hill, and Hunter opens up on the gun team from thirty yards–he’s right above, like a giant bumblebee. Hits my guy with an M-60, then walks the rounds down because he sees us waving. He was trigger-happy. It’s understandable, but we’d thrown smoke to mark our position.
They were walking the rounds down the hill. Just missed me and Steve my lieutenant; they missed all of us by ten or twenty feet. Steve said, “Get up there, Doc!” This guy John, his leg was just blown open. I’m looking at his bones; I’m looking at his muscle; I’m looking at ligaments and there’s blood spurting from his shoulder like a geyser. I straddle the guy–I just sit on him. The gun ship comes in and starts laying down rockets and mini-guns right over us. Like Apocalypse Now–you got smoke; you got rockets; you got mini-guns. It was wild.
I’m patching him up. He’s writhing in pain. I don’t know where it comes from, but this is the good part of the story. From somewhere–bear in mind I’m Jewish–I say, “John, you believe in Jesus?” And he’s screaming and I say, “We’re gonna pray, John. We’re gonna pray to fucking Jesus.” John says, “Jesus Christ, Doc. Gimme a fucking cigarette!” His hands are shaking. I turn to the squad leader and say, “Pete, give John a fucking cigarette!”
So John’s got his cigarette, and he’s shaking like crazy. I say, “Pete, light the fucking cigarette!” and while John’s smoking the cigarette, I jab him with morphine. I don’t remember how we got him down to a bomb crater. When the medevac came in, I fucked up. We’re at the lip of the crater and the medevac crew throws down a litter. We put him in, they start to winch him up. His arm is fucked. I’m not thinking, just acting. And the helicopter’s winching him up. But before they get him up, I lean over and put my hand to his ear. I say, “John, it’s Doc. You’re gonna be all right. Everyone loves you.”
So they start to hoist him up and once he’s perpendicular but not off the ground I day, “All right, John. You’re gonna be OK.” And I slap him right where he got shot. And he screams bloody fucking murder. Then they haul him in and the chopper is gone and all this dust and shit trickle back down. We gather our gear and move out…
______________
At this LZ I’m sleeping outside because it’s ho
t, and somebody comes running past–we’re getting hit. I run into a bunker. The rounds go right over us. They hit the bunker forty or fifty meters away. We hear the all-clear siren. We run out; people are screaming, “Medic!” I run to that bunker and Jean Locklear’s inside. There was no blast wall. A mortar hit and there should have been a sandbag wall that would have taken the blast, but it wasn’t there.
So he’s inside, big guy, 6′ 2″. He’s got shrap in the head, shrap in the hand trying to block the blast–reflex. He’s in shock. The bunker’s on fire and there’s a case of frags on top; a case of Army frags, not the WWII pineapple grenades. These were baseball grenades; killing radius about five yards–nasty. I’d say a dozen in the box. If that thing had exploded everybody would have got fucked up. But you block that out of your mind.
I say, “Jean, you got to get out. Come on.” And he’s in shock. I say, “Jean there’s a case of frags on top. Get out! This thing’s gonna blow!” And he can’t hear me. So I crawl in, drag him out–his arm over my shoulder. This guy’s bigger than I am, but I drag him to the aid station and that’s where the doctor’s drunk. Then two guys drag in one of my friends, Jeff Motyka. The doctor finally starts working on Gene, or somebody did. I see Jeff; he’s hit bad, ghost white. Calls my name. I call his and he just collapsed. I start crying. There’s a couple more casualties so I run out to deal with them, and then I start shaking. The other medics see me shaking and I can’t bandage up this guy. I say, “Can you help me out?”
Then two or three months later they have this award ceremony and someone says, “Hey, you got to get ready. They’re having this ceremony for you.” I say, “What for?” Everybody has to be in formation. They got banners and bugles and pillows and colonels and all this bullshit. And afterwards this medic who bandaged this other guy who didn’t see what happened, he cursed me out. He says, “Why the fuck did you get the Silver Star?” I lived with that for a long time. I acted without thinking.
Thirty years late my lieutenant said he saw what happened. He wrote it up. That took a load off my mind.
_________________________________________
Excerpted from Inconvenient Stories: Vietnam War Veterans, Umbrage Editions 2007, by Jeffrey Wolin. Used by permission of the author.
John–Jean–Jeff
They were walking the rounds down the hill. Just missed me and Steve my lieutenant; they missed all of us by ten or twenty feet. Steve said, “Get up there, Doc!” This guy John, his leg was just blown open. I’m looking at his bones; I’m looking at his muscle; I’m looking at ligaments and there’s blood spurting from his shoulder like a geyser. I straddle the guy–I just sit on him. The gun ship comes in and starts laying down rockets and mini-guns right over us. Like Apocalypse Now–you got smoke; you got rockets; you got mini-guns. It was wild.
I’m patching him up. He’s writhing in pain. I don’t know where it comes from, but this is the good part of the story. From somewhere–bear in mind I’m Jewish–I say, “John, you believe in Jesus?” And he’s screaming and I say, “We’re gonna pray, John. We’re gonna pray to fucking Jesus.” John says, “Jesus Christ, Doc. Gimme a fucking cigarette!” His hands are shaking. I turn to the squad leader and say, “Pete, give John a fucking cigarette!”
So John’s got his cigarette, and he’s shaking like crazy. I say, “Pete, light the fucking cigarette!” and while John’s smoking the cigarette, I jab him with morphine. I don’t remember how we got him down to a bomb crater. When the medevac came in, I fucked up. We’re at the lip of the crater and the medevac crew throws down a litter. We put him in, they start to winch him up. His arm is fucked. I’m not thinking, just acting. And the helicopter’s winching him up. But before they get him up, I lean over and put my hand to his ear. I say, “John, it’s Doc. You’re gonna be all right. Everyone loves you.”
So they start to hoist him up and once he’s perpendicular but not off the ground I day, “All right, John. You’re gonna be OK.” And I slap him right where he got shot. And he screams bloody fucking murder. Then they haul him in and the chopper is gone and all this dust and shit trickle back down. We gather our gear and move out…
______________
At this LZ I’m sleeping outside because it’s ho
t, and somebody comes running past–we’re getting hit. I run into a bunker. The rounds go right over us. They hit the bunker forty or fifty meters away. We hear the all-clear siren. We run out; people are screaming, “Medic!” I run to that bunker and Jean Locklear’s inside. There was no blast wall. A mortar hit and there should have been a sandbag wall that would have taken the blast, but it wasn’t there.
So he’s inside, big guy, 6′ 2″. He’s got shrap in the head, shrap in the hand trying to block the blast–reflex. He’s in shock. The bunker’s on fire and there’s a case of frags on top; a case of Army frags, not the WWII pineapple grenades. These were baseball grenades; killing radius about five yards–nasty. I’d say a dozen in the box. If that thing had exploded everybody would have got fucked up. But you block that out of your mind.
Then two or three months later they have this award ceremony and someone says, “Hey, you got to get ready. They’re having this ceremony for you.” I say, “What for?” Everybody has to be in formation. They got banners and bugles and pillows and colonels and all this bullshit. And afterwards this medic who bandaged this other guy who didn’t see what happened, he cursed me out. He says, “Why the fuck did you get the Silver Star?” I lived with that for a long time. I acted without thinking.
Thirty years late my lieutenant said he saw what happened. He wrote it up. That took a load off my mind.
_________________________________________
Excerpted from Inconvenient Stories: Vietnam War Veterans, Umbrage Editions 2007, by Jeffrey Wolin. Used by permission of the author.