1965
Brit
Enough.
Everyone in his company knew there would come a point when Corporal Ken Hutchinson would simply have had enough, and this was it.
Ten minutes ago, the eighteen-year-old had simply been exhausted. He was on his twenty-third straight hour of standby while the war—or whatever the press was currently calling this version of Dante’s Hell—raged less than a mile from camp. His relief had gotten dysentery and was out of commission, at least for another twenty-four hours. That left Hutch, his commanding officer, and two other medics to deal with the aftermath of 7th Cavalry’s assault below Chu Pong Massif.
Ten minutes ago, he’d simply
been disgusted. By the
fighting. By
death. By the
inhumanity of mankind. It was
amazing what a tiny piece of metal, either in the form of a bullet or a piece
of shrapnel, could do to a body. He was disgusted with
Ten minutes ago, he’d been
furious. Their medical unit was a joke,
not having half the materials or skills critical for preserving the lives of
the soldiers and civilians who were brought in to them with little or no
hope. It was a joke, but no one was
laughing, except perhaps the devil himself.
He didn’t think he could possibly feel any more rage
or disgust until ten minutes ago. That
was when a pair of Vietnamese nationals was ushered into the medics’ tent. The man, though probably only in his late
teens, was dressed in American clothes.
Why he wasn’t serving with the Vietcong was enough to put Hutch on
guard. He’d heard of Vietnamese soldiers
infiltrating
The girl couldn’t have been any older than
fourteen. She lay withering on the exam
table, her hands grasping her slightly bloated stomach. With each new pain, her bruised face screwed
up, leaving her panting, though she never once cried out. Blood pooled beneath her legs.
“
His captain’s bark stopped Hutch from drawing
morphine into a syringe. “But¾”
“It can’t be helped.” Captain Bullock began donning his examination
gown and gloves, his disdain evident.
“You know how low we are on supplies.
We can’t waste it on...on this....”
“‘This?’ Captain, how can you¾?”
“You want to be the one to tell our wounded that we’re out of morphine, Corporal?”
Hutch set down the equipment,
his jaw clenched, and pulled on his own gown.
“What do you need me to do?”
Bullock had moved around to the girl’s feet and pried her
legs open to begin the exam. “Just hold
her down. My guess is,
this’ll only take a minute.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Another contraction hit and the girl doubled over,
jerking her legs away from Bullock and inadvertently kicking him in the mouth.
“Dammit, Corporal, I said
hold her down!” Bullock charged to
Hutch’s side and pressed one of the blond’s forearms across the girl’s thin collarbone, and the other across her hips, immobilizing
her. Hutch’s face was merely inches from
the teen’s as she silently gasped in pain, fighting
against him. She opened her eyes once,
her dark brown eyes beseeching him for help to end her pain or her
circumstances. Or her
life.
The girl finally made a sound, a long keening wail
as Captain Bullock’s forceps entered her body.
The cry died off only when she fell into unconsciousness.
Hutch felt the hairs on the back of his neck and
arms rise as he slowly straightened.
“What’s wrong with her?”
Bullock rose as well, a
blackened, bloody mass in his cupped hands.
“This.”
Hutch swore and turned away, the bile instantly
burning his throat at the sight of the tiny unborn baby. Understanding began to dawn on him, and he
swung his angry gaze toward the youth casually leaning against a tent
post. “You said she had an
accident. How did this happen?”
The captain placed the small body in a towel and
covered it, then began stripping off his bloody gown and gloves. “Didn’t you see her bruises? Take a look at her abdomen and you’ll see a bunch that match her face.”
Hutch took a menacing step toward the Vietnamese
teen, who met his gaze unflinchingly.
“What happened to her?”
Bullock threw his soiled materials into a
barrel. “Oh, for crying out loud,
Hutch’s mouth gaped.
“She’s a prostitute? She’s just a
kid!”
Bullock rolled his eyes at the corporal’s naivete. “Doesn’t matter.
She’s probably the only one in her family who can earn any money to buy
food and keep them alive. So, when Mr.
Personality here finds out about the pregnancy, he works her over enough to
kill the baby, knowing that her body’ll naturally
abort it. Then he doesn’t have to pay
for some back-alley abortion in the city.
The only problem was that she’s so weak she couldn’t, and the dead fetus
was poisoning her body.” Bullock looked
back over his shoulder as he scrubbed his hands in the makeshift sink. “That about right?”
The young man’s impassive expression never changed
as he responded in Vietnamese.
Hutch was so stunned by the series of events that he
remained motionless, even though every muscle was electrified with rage. He’d seen every conceivable wound over the
past six months, witnessed every stage of death and dying among the soldiers. But this was beyond his comprehension. “What’d he say? Don’t tell me he’s asking how she is.”
“Nope. He just wants to know how soon before she’s
well enough to go back to work.”
The Vietnamese man was battered to the floor by
Hutch’s first blow, then pulled to his knees and knocked back down by the
second. The captain pulled Hutch off the
teen and thrust him outside the tent with orders to cool off and get something
to eat before combat resumed and they sustained more casualties.
Hutch stormed away from the tent, seething. As much as he wanted to put some distance
between himself and the horror he’d just experienced, he knew enough not to
wander too far away from the safety of the makeshift compound. They’d been called in three days before to
the thirty-eighth parallel—more affectionately known as Razorback Ridge—with
the arrival of two divisions. The
fighting had initially been overwhelming, producing hundreds of dead and
wounded. The onslaught had slowed
marginally, but everyone knew it was simply a matter of time before the
Vietnamese pushed back to regain what ground they had lost.
Hutch’s Zippo lighter made its
distinctive metallic snap as the cover was flicked open and he lit a cigarette
to draw a steadying breath. His hands
shook a bit as he rolled the Winston between his fingers, partially from
fatigue, partially from rage. He
wondered, and not for the first time, how much lower humanity could fall. The seemingly senselessness of the fighting,
the war itself, and the lack of regard for human dignity and life was all too
much for him. A tendril of cynicism
wrapped itself around his heart, not unlike the cigarette smoke that encircled
his tense face.
Finishing his cigarette, Hutch dropped the butt and
ground it out under his boot. That’s it; I’ve had enough. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was going to do next, but he knew something had to
change.
And if that happened, he knew with bitter assurance,
there’d be no going back.
Hutch turned to make his way back to the darkened
camp, when he heard the underbrush breaking behind him. He spun into a crouch, his weapon drawn,
desperately trying to isolate the source of the noise. More than once over the past six months, his
mobile medical unit had been under attack, both by Vietcong soldiers and by
locals desperate for food and medication.
The movement in the brush sounded again, closer and
to his right. Hutch took aim and began
to cautiously back away to the cover of the camp. Before he got very far, a large shape began
to form out of the blackness of the jungle, lurching and stumbling against the
trees and large brush.
“Help us...my
buddy needs help.”
As the form made its way closer to the outpost, the
tent lights revealed two American soldiers, one slung over the shoulder of the
other.
“Captain!” Hutch shouted back toward the tent as he
sheathed his gun. He ran the remaining
yards to the unsteady form. The man
being carried was covered in blood and motionless. His rescuer wasn’t much older than Hutch and
was also covered in blood and dirt, his uniform torn in several places. His helmet was missing, and sweat matted the
dark hair to his head. Hollows darkened
his eyes, which held a dazed expression, and his left arm hung uselessly at his
side. Hutch reached up to pull the lax
body off the other’s shoulder, but the soldier stared at him vacantly, not
relinquishing his burden. Hutch grasped
his arm, trying to get through to the shell-shocked man, but the soldier simply
gasped in pain and flinched away.
“Easy, Sergeant, easy—you’re safe now. I’m a medic.
Let me help you.” Hutch quickly
moved so he was looking the soldier full in the face, trying to make eye
contact and encourage a coherent response.
He was grateful when Captain Bullock rushed up
beside him. “Let’s get them
inside.”
When the soldier didn’t immediately respond, the
captain quickly assessed his unresponsive state. He also needed assistance, but they would
deal with him later. First, they needed
to care for the more seriously wounded man.
The captain determined the best way to do so without causing him further
damage by moving him twice was for him to remain on the sergeant’s shoulder
until they got to the examination room.
Bullock placed his hand on the dazed man’s arm, his tone coaxing. “Can you make it to the tent, Sergeant? Bring your buddy inside so we can fix him
up? Come on,
soldier, just a few more yards.”
The sergeant nodded once and moved unsteadily
forward, medics on either side of him in case he toppled. Their progress was slow, but they were soon
within the relative safety of the tent.
Bullock snatched up a clean pair of scrubs and
nodded toward the examination table as he tied his gown closed. “Get him on the table, Hutchinson.”
Hutch took the sergeant’s wrist and forearm and gave
it a gentle tug. He was met with
considerable resistance at first, but the contact seemed to break through the
soldier’s numbness and his haunted blue eyes focused on Hutch. “We need help.”
“You got it.
Just take it easy, okay? Let me
help you.” Another pull from Hutch drew
the soldier’s arm away from his burden.
With some effort, Hutch eased the limp soldier off the sergeant’s
shoulder and onto the examination table.
“Sit him down somewhere until we can get to
him.” Bullock nodded at the other and
crossed over to the patient. He
immediately checked the motionless soldier’s carotid pulse with one hand while
peeling back a bruised eyelid with the other.
Intending to offer some encouragement to the waiting
man, Hutch turned back just in time to catch him as he passed out. Easing the sergeant to the floor, Hutch
immediately assessed his breathing and pulse.
He was surprised when Bullock left his patient and crouched next to him. “Poor SOB.
He didn’t even realize that his buddy’s dead.”
“No...” Hutch breathed. “How far do you think he carried him to get
here?”
Bullock shrugged, his often-stony demeanor softening. “Hard to say. Fighting’s at least a mile, mile and a half away.” Bullock nodded toward the body on the exam table. “My guess is they were getting shelled and a round went off pretty close. The guy on the table’s got some deep lacerations, but nothing that should have been life threatening. He took a blow to the head and it probably scrambled his brains. Just looked like he was unconscious to this one here.”
Hutch had peeled back the remains of the sergeant’s torn jacket and probed for internal injuries and broken bones. “Looks like his shoulder’s dislocated. Possible minor concussion.”
Bullock nodded. “I’ll get the orderlies to move the body out and process it, then let’s get Sergeant...what’s that read?”
Hutch looked back down at the remains of the nametag on the soldier’s jacket. “Looks like ‘S-t-a¾’ something. Dog tags are missing, too.”
“You wait here with him and take a breather. I’ll fill out the paperwork and get a toe tag on the other one. Then we can set his shoulder.” The captain pushed himself up with a groan, using Hutch’s shoulder for leverage. He gave the unconscious soldier one last look and shook his head as he left the medics’ tent. “All that way for nothin’.”
Hutch stared silently at the bruised face. “No,” he said softly. “Not for nothing.”
˜ ™
The shouting woke Hutch out of
a deep sleep and sent him scrambling off his cot and onto his feet. Captain Bullock charged in, gathering up an
armload of examination gowns and stuffing them into a duffel bag. “We’re bugging out,
Hutch rubbed a hand across his burning eyes then reached under his cot for his own bag. “How close are they?”
“Too close,” Bullock grunted as he crossed to a trunk and flipped it open. He quickly began loading surgical tools and medications into it.
Hutch tossed his duffel bag onto his cot and joined the other in filling the trunk. “What about the patients?”
“Transported about an hour ago.” Each man took a handle on the chest and lifted. As they crossed toward the door, Hutch snagged his sack and swung it over his shoulder. The rest of the compound was a flurry of activity, with most of the other tents already torn down and loaded onto the trucks.
Bullock and Hutch swung the
trunk up onto the platform of a waiting transport. “
The two men shook hands, and Hutch made to scramble up onto the back of the waiting truck. He paused first and called back to the other, “Captain Bullock?”
“Yeah?”
“The sergeant who came in last night—did he ever regain consciousness?”
Bullock nodded. “This morning. Just before we started evacuating.”
“Did you tell him?”
“That his buddy was dead before he even got here? No—no time. He woke up, saw everybody getting hauled out of here, pulled his uniform back on, and started helping move the wounded onto the trucks.”
Hutch looked at him
incredulously. “His arm was in a sling.”
“Didn’t seem
to slow him down any.” The
truck’s horn sounded twice. “Get going,
Hutch’s mouth lifted in a tired grin as he raised a hand in farewell. Pulling himself up onto the back of the truck, he sat down next to one of the other medics perched on a trunk. The transport’s gears squealed as it lurched forward, kicking up dust in its wake.
As the dirt two-track flowed
beneath them, Hutch considered the events of the last twenty-four hours. He was still disillusioned, still felt he’d
had enough, but his thoughts kept returning to the wounded sergeant who had
staggered across a battlefield and through the
The realization didn’t cause what was plaguing his heart to make any more sense, but it was enough to get Hutch off the truck when they finally made camp. He unloaded the medical gear, again ready to do everything he could to keep the next batch of wounded alive.