Every Battle of the Warrior

Chapter 1

November 1971

“Where are we?”
The chuff, chuff, chuff of Huey blades drowned his words. Charlie tried again.
“Where’re you taking us?”
Rows of rectangular-shaped buildings near the end of a long airstrip loomed larger.
The crew chief pressed gauze against the shoulder of a young native soldier.
“Pleiku!” He motioned to the door-gunner. “Wrap that tape around this an’ keep ’im propped up.”
Dust rose in the air as the helicopter settled on the tarmac.
Charlie leaned back. The face he cradled in his lap was pale. Could a black man loose that much color? Was it the morphine? Was he dead?
Medics in OD T-shirts hurried to the chopper. They placed the wounded on canvas-covered stretchers and lugged a heavy body bag to the side.
Charlie released his friend to their care and climbed out. His chest was tight. His shoulders slumped. He gripped his weapon and looked down on the limp body of Sergeant First Class Wilcott.
“Hey, you! Don’t just stand there; grab ahold and help us get ’im inside.”
Charlie’s stupor vanished. He grabbed a corner, gritted his teeth, and limped across the helipad to the triage area. His fevered left thigh oozed blood.
A WAC captain, fatigue sleeves rolled above her elbows, assessed the occupant of each stretcher and gesticulated.
“Set this one down over there; Ringer’s and antibiotics! Take this one to surgery! They’re gonna want plasma; have it ready!”
She lifted the bandage and looked at Sergeant Wilcott’s wounds; she felt his neck.
“Expectant!”
He was transferred to a gurney and pushed behind a white curtain. Charlie gaped. Weren’t they going to help him?
“You! What’s your name? What’re you doing standing there?” The officer stared at Charlie. “Get up here.” She slapped the top of a gurney.
Charlie removed his pack and eased his body onto the cart. He hugged his weapon against his chest.
Practiced hands cut and ripped his pant leg.
Charlie winced.
“This is all my fault.”
The nurse glanced at his face.
“Did you start this war?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then it’s not your fault…Chappell! Get over here!”
A young man, barely out of high school, appeared at her side.
“Clean this wound and get him to Doctor Bean,” she waved her hand over Charlie’s equipment, “and get rid of this stuff.”
PFC Chappell pushed the gurney to one side then retrieved Charlie’s rucksack.
“I’ll take your gun.”
Charlie held his weapon tighter. Gun? It sounded strange to hear an M-16 referred to as a ‘gun.’
“All your gear will be secured in a safe area.”
Charlie released his grip.
Florescent lights collectively impersonated the sun and the acidic smell of disinfectant displaced the heady fumes of combat.
He breathed deeply and slowly exhaled.
“What’s your name?”
A nurse with an un-pampered bob-haircut stood at his shoulder. Dark eyes, etched by long hours, little sleep, and stress, conveyed sympathy.
“Lawrence. I’m Sergeant Lawrence.
The nurse smiled weakly.
“What’s your first name?”
“Charlie.”
Her cool fingers inspected his fevered leg.
“I’m Joan. Don’t worry, Charlie; you’ll be outta here in no time.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about; it’s my friend, Sergeant Wilcott.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“But he’s hurt bad an’ they’re not doing anything for ’im!”
“Where is he?”
Charlie pointed.
“They moved him behind that curtain.”
Joan looked at the curtain and swallowed. She pressed her lips together and patted Charlie’s arm.
“I’ll take care of him. I won’t let him die.”