Dancing with Baptists

Chapter 6

Somewhere in the Delta

South Vietnam

October 12, 1967

Sergeants Parks and Harris were with Greg. Lt. Forsythe was their young resident. One of the wonders of war was that the enlisted medics and "lifers" were much more experienced than the doctor officers. Many young resident surgeons drank to calm the fear, took uppers to not cut an artery, and downers to forget the blood and get a little sleep.

One surprising thing about hospital surgeries is the lack of blood. The blood keeps you from seeing the tissues you need to fix or remove. So "Doc" officers and enlisted techs suctioned out the blood into sterilized tubing that led into a sterilized jar. The only sounds heard were the occasional beep of a monitor, the vacuum nozzle trapped against an organ, and the orders of the surgeon. There would be a little blood on the swabs in the jaws of a clamped hemostat, but very little blood elsewhere, even on the latex gloves of the surgeon.

But not that day. Lt. Forsythe's gloved hands and arms were elbow-deep dark with fresh red blood covering already dried blood from other young patients. Greg and the other two surgical techs were covered, as well. Arterial wounds sprayed at them like lawn sprinklers. There was no time to feel sorry, cry, or be scared. But fear made a way.

Greg could not believe Chap had made it there alive. The firefight was the hottest Greg had seen. Their triage was set up only yards behind the two well-armed forces. Chap crawled into a clearing, stopping at each wounded soldier to pray.

"What can I do?" Chap asked Greg when he finally reached him. Greg was starting IVs as Sgt. Parks worked on a gaping stomach wound.

"You seen any Choppers?" Greg asked Chap. Chap shook his head and asked, "They on their way?"

"Hope so," Greg said as he moved to a wounded PFC. And then it happened. One zing hit the ground near the PFC. A second shattered the IV bottle of Dextrose Greg held in his hand. The shards of glass slow-motioned in all directions. Greg hit the ground, but Chap beat him to it. Greg raised his head above safety to try to determine the enemy's location. "We have to get behind those sandbags."

Greg, for the first time since he was sworn-in in Houston, drew his sidearm.

"C'mon," Greg told Chap. Greg ran through the zings and slid into third behind his "unit one pack", a backpack the combat medics carried. Chap was on his heels. Greg crawled back to check on the PFC and saw he was dead. He ran back to the sanctuary of the sandbags. On the ground was a new helmet with an Ace of Hearts stuck in its olive green elastic band. Three yards from the helmet was the young surgical resident. His Lieutenant brass was still shiny. Greg knew if the Lieutenant was dead, he would have to do any surgical procedures alone. But suddenly the Lieutenant stirred. He had blood over his right eyebrow and when he regained consciousness, he thought he was blind. Chap calmed him as the zings from the firefight slowed to a few distant "pops." Greg laid his .38 special sidearm on one of the sandbags as he cleaned the skull wound of the Lieutenant. Soon the Lieutenant realized he could see. Another miracle out of the carnage. But before they could celebrate, a shadow of one of Charlie's finest appeared out of nowhere. Greg reached for his Beretta and fired all in one motion. The enemy soldier emptied his clip all around Chap, the Lieutenant, and Greg before dotting the clouds with his last rounds.

"Get back!" Greg yelled as Chap rushed to the soldier. Greg, with his sidearm still smoking, reached Chap as he stared at the lifeless soldier. Around the dead young VC's neck was the cross the young villager had made for Chap. Chap gently removed the cross and prayed over the short-lived life of the young boy. Greg threw his sidearm in the brush as hard as he could.