This story has to be in the third person. I cannot do this in the first person, I cannot bring myself to put myself in this man's shoes, so forgive me, because we all know that sooner or later everybody has to answer the final roll call.
*
The unarmed Medevac chopper hit the ground hard almost tossing out the Crew Chief, who was already precariously perched on the skid and ready to jump to the ground. The platoons of Huey Gunships circled the LZ, using their fifties and forty millimeter guns to dust down anything that moved or looked suspicious in their fire zones. The four men quickly ran up with the last of the wounded and slid his litter on the deck. The crew chief and the nurse locked his litter into the deck slots. The second man was still on the ground with his bearers kneeling, the medic attending had pulled the dead soldier's poncho over his face and shook his head.
"This 'un's almost gone, ma'am," the medic had passed up the nearly empty IV bag to the nurse, "dunno if you wanna waste much time on him."
He sounded calloused and hard, but he was only telling her the unvarnished truth as he knew it, straightforward and plain.
"Ro-ger roger," she responded.
"That's the last one this trip," he slapped the side of the bird and gave the pilot the thumb's up as the Crew Chief jumped back in, "we got a lotta bodies still lying here, and we need'a get 'em home," his face was a blank mask as he hollered over the noise of the whirling blades, numb and emotionless as he stepped back and squatted holding a weapon that he'd gotten God knows off what body, and squatted, pointing it down-range, a single lonely body guarding her chopper with his life, bending against the rotors' down-wash.
"I'll pass it on," the Nurse yelled back.
So, this soldier wasn't expected to live. He was badly torn up, his body had been hit many times. She was later told that he'd put his life up in exchange for a platoon of other boys -- a platoon of men, they were no longer boys -- who'd been taken under attack by heavy fire. The majority of the platoon would have probably been among the bodies, had it not been for him. As it was, because he seemed ready to meet his God, they had held him and the dead one, to the last in case a chopper couldn't land or had to suddenly depart or, God forbid, go down in flames as so many medevac choppers already had. The ground triage team had first to send back the worst wounded that could reasonably be expected to survive. The last chopper was reserved for those still alive, but who had no hope of survival and were already dead but holding on by a thread. This, then, was the nurse's personal flight.
Her pilots called the flight, when she climbed aboard, Angel of Mercy Flight One. The last hope for these dead men that were stubbornly hanging on to life. The Nurse unwrapped another IV, tossing the bag to her orderly to hang up.
"God knows there's so fucking many," the sweat ran like tears down her cheeks, it was hot and steamy, "so fucking many."
So fucking many! They lay out there waiting for Graves and Registration to record their deaths. That this one was still alive was due to his stubbornness or Saint Peter's busy staff holding him in the lineup or both, because ol' Pete must've been busy checking in all the dead from this operation and only he and God knew why this man still hung on -- and God only knew what kept him from sending up his soul.
The orderly, a hospital orderly for God's sake, had the IV bags hanging as this soldier's litter was brought up. The Crew Chief helped slide the litter up as the Orderly and the Nurse locked it into the deck slots. The Crew Chief himself, a grizzled veteran of many of these mercy flights and all of twenty years old, waited calmly for the Nurse to give him the okay before winding his finger in the air and sliding inside out of their way, half in and half out of the bird, one foot on a skid and squatting on the other. The Nurse hastily found a collapsing vein and quickly and skillfully pushed the IV needle into it. She had grown skilled in finding those illusive veins aboard vibrating and thumping helicopters, a skill that she hated, one that she wished she'd never had to learn.
The chopper's turbines whined as it lifted slowly from it's makeshift LZ. He must have had nerves of steel, because the incoming rounds were enough to test a lesser man's courage. He lifted the out of tune, vibrating machine as gently as he could. She braced herself against the tilt of the chopper and ignored a stray bullet that snapped past her head and perforated the soldier's IV bag.
"This must be a good man," she thought illogically, "the Devil's fighting hard to have him," it never occurred to her that she might be the intended target.
She reached up and held onto a strap as the aircraft shuddered and she prayed as she had so many times before, that she would make it back to base without losing her dying, maimed and so very precious, cargo. She'd already had one helicopter shot out from under her and by The Grace of God only one of the crew, the crew chief, had been injured and that only a comparatively light sprained wrist. As for this near shot, the orderly calmly reached over with one hand and pinched one of the holes in the bag, hanging on to a strap and waiting for the flight to stabilize before pinching the other hole.
The Crew Chief, seeing the spurting saline, quickly stood, hanging onto the back of the copilot's seat, and reached his hand out, following the orderlies lead, pinching the other hole tightly. They grinned at each other over this small victory, and if it had been possible, would have slapped palms -- an aerial high five. The Crew Chief glanced out the open side as a platoon of Cobra "Gunfighters" joined the fracas.
They came in firing rockets into the jungle canopies, their flame-tailed rocket exhausts whorling like pig's tails, as they streaked down from the bird's under-winglet launchers, the forty-millimeter guns blasting blue flames, sending the HE rounds into the dense thickets. The Crew Chief grinned at the carnage he assumed they were wreaking on the Viet Cong and wished he were a gunner on one of those killer birds.
The dying soldier lifted a hand aimlessly and mumbled something. The Orderly leaned over him to hear any last words, a gesture that moved the Nurse.
"Cassandra," the dying man croaked, "Cassandra . . . I'll . . . be . . . home," he finished with a muffled groan of pain and regurgitated a small spill of blood.
