Wounded Minds

My second grenade exploded whatever the NVA had stashed in the bunker, breaking my M-16 into pieces and launching my helmet up in the air as I went flying. A piece of the bunker, grenade, or rock had gone through the artery behind my left knee, taking out a piece of the calf and tearing into the nerves above the ankle. My left leg went instantly numb as I lay on my back, blood pooling in my trousers behind the knee and starting to dribble out the hole in the fabric. I grabbed my K-bar as I was sitting up and used its razor edge to slice the trouser leg from the thigh to the knee just before one of the corpsmen came out of nowhere and slapped my hands away from my leg. He frantically applied a battle dressing which quickly turned bloody as it was being wrapped around the back of the left knee. The ‘doc’ then used my K-bar to cut everything else off my body that wasn’t blown up in the explosion as he looked for more wounds to plug. While I was going into shock he applied a second battle dressing over the first one, wrapped the banners of the dressing around the leg a couple of times and knotted them tight to stop what arterial bleeding he could. When he jabbed a morphine needle in the thigh just above the wound in the knee, I remember thinking that injecting it in that leg was a waste, because my leg looked like hamburger and I figured it would just dribble out all of the holes. That’s the sort of shit that fires through your brain at a time like that. I started drifting in and out of consciousness, and remember the chatter of M-16’s, SKS and AK-47’s starting to pick up just as a couple of marines slid my sorry ass on a poncho to get me out of there. That seemed like the signal for all hell to break loose, and it sounded like we were back on the rifle range at Parris Island as we were pinned down, with the corpsman lying on top of me. I feebly told him “Get off of me and give me my rifle!” The mind was willing, but by that time I was about half dead and physically bankrupt.

After some of the firing died down the poncho was made into a hasty litter and I was tossed back into it. Bullets were still flying and as I was half dead, the marines carrying me out of the thick of the fight didn’t have a big priority on how they dragged me over rocks and bushes that were in the way while they stayed low. They needed to keep moving to get me out of there and I got to feeling pretty banged up; God bless them for getting me out though. I was in eminent danger of dying from shock and loss of blood, so an emergency medivac was ordered while I was being hauled back to the CP. The first chopper coming in for me was shot down, making for a total of seven choppers (all CH-46’s) shot down in the four days of the operation so far.

            The second chopper made it in and as soon as I was put on board and it took off for the cooler air higher up. In the stupor I was in I had no idea where we might be going, and didn’t really care. I was naked except for a jungle boot on the right foot that was the remaining one of a new pair I had finally gotten several days prior, and I remember being pissed because they were already ruined. No one made any attempt to cover me as bloody as I was. The cool wind on my body was like heaven, and I would have just lain there if a rough pocket of air hadn’t jolted me. One of the crew was standing next to my feet where the loading ramp hinged up, like he was looking after my welfare in a disinterested way. It was impossible to make eye contact through the sun shield of his flight helmet, so I let my thoughts drift off into the morphine fog again.

            I wasn’t aware of the chopper setting down, but came around enough as I was being carried into the first aid station to recognize marines and corpsmen from LZ Ross, our battalion rear. I was being manhandled and flopped around until I didn’t know which end was up when I heard someone say “It’s in the fridge.” and felt a jab in my hand. I must have asked what it was, because someone said “Plasma.” I was cool before, but once the plasma started flowing, I got ice cold. I felt a jab in my right leg which must have been another morphine shot, heard someone give a command “Da Nang. Now!” and drifted out when a clean white sheet embraced me as the stretcher was lifted again.

            I felt some jostling from way far away, which must have been the bird setting down on the helo-pad at the Da Nang hospital at division rear. Then my brain slammed open full throttle for a second as I was slid onto a frigid cold stainless steel operating table inside somewhere. I still had the one boot on the right foot, and was laying on my right side but could raise my head enough to see who was fussing with my legs; trying to position me for operating, I could only suppose. Someone in a surgical mask and white coat was using scissors to cut the battle dressing behind the left knee apart. He peeled it open and my eyes rolled into the back of my head as I passed out when I saw what looked like a pound of purple jelled blood plop onto the shiny steel table.