SEND MY ANGELS
SEND MY ANGELS
BY JOHN TUFT
The chopper dusted off from Quang Tri and headed south toward the Marines who were pinned down in the rice patties that were everywhere in South Vietnam. On board were the pilot and second, the door gunner and Kirby, a medic. Kirby is 19, doing his first tour, son of a doctor back home in Monaca, Pennsylvania. They didn’t fly higher than 500 feet as they skimmed over the jungle and villages below. Radio chatter filled the headsets that they all wore. Kirby is one of the over 1.8 million men drafted into the armed forces for this particular combat excursion by the United States government. He is one of the fortunate. Medics received ten weeks of training on how to triage wounds, bind wounds, give morphine, and get them ready for the choppers, all while under close enemy fire. Kirby has the advantage of been around the sick and dying and the injured all of his life. But a quiet doctor’s office is far removed from the heat, screams, blood and carnage of the battlefield.
When they were two clicks out, the pilot keyed the mic three times, sending the signal to them all to get ready to come under fire. Kirby was battle ready with his M16, a .45 on his hip and three grenades hanging from his battle rattle belt, right along with his aid kit slung over one shoulder. Vietnam was the first war where the US armed their medics. Three months into his grunt runt 13-month in country deployment, Kirby was supposed to be in a hospital somewhere, but combat regiments needed life saving skills in the heat of battle. Medics were not supposed to be fighting in the combat, but when someone is coming at you with an AK-47 determined to wipe the Yankee imperialist off the face of the earth, what’s a man to do? Kirby’s letters home are filled with the people of this land, the sights, his buddies on the firebases, and longing to be home. The blood, the guts, the boys screaming for their mommas as they bled out in the mud and stink of the jungle, that part he left out. What would be the point?
The worst was coming in after napalm had been used to eliminate every living creature in its path. Close fire air support can be a crap shoot. Human flesh burnt crisp black, sloughing off to expose white bone as you tried to maneuver a Marine onto a stretcher and the dissonance of smelling burnt meat like momma left the roast soaked in kerosene in the oven too long, was overwhelming. The stuff of nightmares. But it was a job that had to be done. Lives depended on it. Get them treated, bind the wounds, try to kill the pain, load them and get them to the docs. Doing it at the ripe old age of 19 was pure madness. But madness is necessary in war.
The first rounds hitting the chopper barely rocked it. “They’re making popcorn, boys” came the voice of the pilot. That’s what the gunfire sounded like as they approached. The pilot pulled the collective and the ship dropped at a frightening speed toward the battle below. Right as they touched the ground the entire plexiglass windscreen exploded in a thousand shards and the pilot slumped over, dead. The blast threw Kirby out of the airship as it pitched over, and the rotors hit the ground and broke. Dazed, Kirby looked around. The door gunner’s leg was shattered, and he hung by his safety strap from the doorway. Kirby crawled to him and struggled to use his Kbar to cut him free. He did his best to lower the soldier to the ground, put a combat dressing over the exposed bone and hit him with the morphine.
Kirby lost all track of time as he scuttered from Marine to Marine, doing what he could to bind wounds, hang “the juice,” and dull the pain. The noise was deafening, the danger of his life ending at the next step all too real. At one point when it looked like they were going to be overrun, Kirby dropped the aid kit and shouldered his weapon and joined the line. Smoke drifted over the tree line but when the wind shifted, Kirby saw a young man, all of 19 years, charging at him, in full NVA gear. Kirby took aim and put two in his chest. The young man dropped in his tracks. It was only later, as the sun disappeared over the ridge and the lieutenant told them they were there for the night, did Kirby start to shake. He crawled back over to the mortally wounded chopper and crawled under its belly. Great sobs escaped his chest.
As the first stars winked down on the battlefield, this human mess of a scar on the earth, Kirby started to whisper, “Send my angels. Please, Jesus, send my angels.” Over and over. “Jesus, please, send my angels. I need my angels.” He pulled the picture of his parents from his pocket. “Daddy, Momma, send my angels. I’m begging you, send my angels.” He pictured the Ohio River flowing past his hometown of Monaca. His high school. Maryanne, who went to the prom with him. His buddies on the baseball team. It was all so far away. So, so far away. At last, beneath the deceased Huey, he drifted off to sleep, or maybe he was drowning in the dark waters of the silent river back home. Either was fine by him.
Near dawn he jolted awake. He’d been dreaming about a crying baby. He was awake but he could still hear the whimpering. He looked over at the zipped-up body bags where he’d crawled, unaware. A small dog, a village mutt sat there staring at him. He was holding up one paw, whimpering in pain. “What’s the matter boy?” Kirby held out his hand. The dog studied him. Kirby dug a tattered bag of fruit drops his mother had sent and offered one to the wounded dog. The pup approached and sniffed the treat. As he wolfed it down, Kirby opened his kit. He took out some powder, sprinkled it on the wound and wrapped it in gauze. When the first mortar round landed on the downed chopper, Kirby was cradling the pup, tears streaming down his blackened face, leaving a track like a stream seeking still waters. Our angels are not always what we expect…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
