"Kissing The Gunner's
Daughter"
By
Ron 'Doc' Ferrell (FMF)
Republic of Vietnam 5/66 - 7/67
1st Batt./5th Mar. & H&S III M.A.F.
(Chu-Lai T.A.O.R.)
© 1995
|
Veterans Center
"I'd pay hard cash for a straight answer from you one of these days Ron!" Firing back in a harsh tone while spooning another hefty scoop of horse chow to her mouth. "After your done eating would you like a 'comb and curry?" I couldn't resist. "Fuck you!...Just answer the question....How do you feel?" ‘Tuesdays over took Mondays as my worst day of the week ; it was time to shorten the calendar’. Shot out! Fire for effect. I returned the volley, "Samo-samo 'Mama-San' I'm the same bucket of toxic waste you spoke with last week." She read through the notes of the previous week like a secretary reading the minutes of the last corporate meeting. Then she whipped out a new sheet of progress notes and was ready to begin. "Let's not discuss last week's material anymore. What I would like to do today is move on," She said authoritatively.
On her desk was an over sized book titled: 'A Pictorial History of the Vietnam War'. I picked it up and leafed through the pages. There were pictures of Marines covered with dirt, mud and blood. Young faces with vacant expressions, devoid of emotion. The faces radiated despair. Black and white photographs depicted grunts slogging through rice paddies; dug into muddy trenches, buried in elephant grass returning fire at an unseen enemy. Other pictures depicted Marines carrying their dead and wounded to medevac helicopters, and convoys of grunts being trucked to some other point of confrontation. There were pictures of Vietnamese refugees evacuating 'en masse' down 'Highway 1'. Pictures of the dead; pictures of bleeding and blindfolded VC prisoners, images of gunships, napalm attacks, USO shows, fire bases, rocket attacks, artillery missions. I slammed it shut and put it back on her desk. ‘A soft voice invaded my past’. "What would you like to discuss?" She had stopped writing and had been watching me as I leafed through the book. "I don't care. Pick a subject," I said noncommittally. "What did you see in the book? Was there anything there that reminded you of an experience?" She asked. "Yes. All of it," I responded. I could feel myself flashing through an index of personality changes searching for the right frame of mind.
"Have you ever killed anyone Nat?" No answer. "Would you like to?" No answer. "Okay! Would you like to hear about another death?" No answer. ‘Although that was all she wanted to hear’. "In September, 1966, I was with H&S III M.A.F. out of Chu-Lai. We had convoyed somewhere South of Chu-Lai; you know... down 'Highway 1'. The 7th Marines were going to establish a staging LZ or LSA between Quang Ngai City and Mo Duc, but somewhat inland; not on the coast. The mountains appeared to be quite close. They were close enough for us to get VC mortar fire from the foothills." "There was a small dirt airstrip suited for small planes and choppers. The grunts ran a single coiled string of concertina on the perimeter. That was all that separated us from the encroaching jungle. I had a truck and driver; we pulled in parallel with a communications truck. I used the trucks proximity to each other to string an overhead tarp to keep us dry during the incessant rains of the 'Monsoon'." "The tarp failed. It filled with water and pulled itself free under the weight of the pooling rainfall. The Captain was sitting under the tarp during the heavy downpour. He was one of those Marines who seemed to relish C-rations. While he was preoccupied with his meal the tarp collapsed. Fifteen or twenty gallons of water buried him in the mud, washing away his C's, and dousing his little 'Trioxyene' heat tab. It was a deluge." "I laughed my ass off. After all Marines are amphibious...right? He was pissed. His grunts kind've tiptoed around his anger until he was a little dryer. He was a different person in dry clothing." "Doc! you build shelters like old people fuck!" ‘Oh boy! Another graphic Marine Corps euphemism’. "I unloaded my truck. It was filled with case lots of blood-volume expanders in glass-liter bottles. Then the boxes were stacked in a three-walled design that allowed me to stretch another tarp over the top. I had a house. Today it would resemble a street shelter for the homeless. As a kid I used to do the same thing, but called it a fort." ‘To this day I hate camping, portable housing and anything that remotely resembles a tent. Camp outs in hostile jungles just seem to spoil the fun of the 'Great Outdoors’. "Uh-34d's came and went constantly. Their crew chiefs would approach me with a list of medical supplies needed for the various unit movements in the surrounding area of operation. The first few days of the operation went like that. At night helicopters too far from Mag-36 would stay with us. The crew chiefs would sleep next to their guns. Pilots would sleep in the cargo bay of the aircraft next to the guy who knew how to use the belt-fed weapons." “We had a small undermanned platoon for perimeter guard defense. Our firepower was limited to M-14's and two M-60's; nothing heavier. We did have air support if needed." ‘Air support was subject to advanced notice by appointment only’.
"In the first week of the operation hit and run VC mortar teams necessitated a request for air support... or artillery if available. One night after dark an old converted cargo plane much like the old Douglas AC-47 of WW-II showed up." "Skipper! What the fuck is this? Don't you at least rate a Phantom?" "Shut up 'Doc'! Watch and learn!" "This old bucket had it's port-side fuselage modified in some weird way or so it seemed and it was lined with mini-guns of some kind. It kind've looked like a twentieth century variation on the old 'Gatling' gun. The plane banked left and made a lazy turn over the mountain where the VC mortar teams were positioned. It's guns began firing; raking the jungle. The sheer fire power was unbelievable!" "'Doc'! They call it 'Puff the Magic Dragon', or just ‘Puff’," the Captain said, not taking his gaze off the light show. The old DC flew over the target firing hundreds of rounds, as reddish-orange tracer lines spirographed a geometric design of fire and destruction. It was mesmerizing watching the tracers undulating in the night sky; listening to the strange humming sound of the machine guns." "Skipper? I've been to three county fairs and two goat fuck'in contests and I ain't never seen nothin' like that!" "'Doc'! Does everyone in Iowa talk like you?" I looked at him; thought about it, and noting he wasn't soaking wet. He appeared to be in a good mood. What the hell! I answered his question with a question, "Does everyone in the 'Crotch' talk like you, Cap?" "Fuck you 'Doc'!" He grinned as he walked away and disappeared in the darkness. "A few nights later I lay in my cardboard bunker. The irony of the dry security in my fortress was strange. My boxes were filled with glass bottles of blood-volume expanders. A near-miss mortar hit would shatter the bottles, cutting me to pieces with exploding glass and I would lie bleeding to death: soaking in pools of the solution I would have otherwise needed to forestall just that eventuality." "I always slept in total darkness, hidden like a small animal from nocturnal predators with my .45 locked and loaded in my right hand. I awakened in the dark sensing the presence of someone very close. Slowly, quietly, my right hand rose in the blackness, then I fired. Instantly, I knew from the muzzle flash that I had shot someone through the head." "Seconds or hours later I could hear people shouting and running toward my make shift hooch." Someone called, "'Doc'! You okay? 'Doc'! Where the fuck are you? Say somethin' Goddammit!"
"A Marine entered my shelter with a flashlight, illuminating the body lying in the dirt at my feet. It was a young Vietnamese man, more than likely from a nearby 'ville'. He probably wasn't even VC. He was probably hungry. He wasn't anymore, he was however...dead. The smell of blood coagulating in the tropical humidity was strong. I had fired point blank in the dark. The round went through his neck at the level of the Cricoid. Two Marines pulled the body out. I don't remember what they did with it. It was probably buried in a shallow grave in one of the nearby berms. No one said anything about returning it to the 'ville'." "I felt no emotional remorse for the killing. My heart was pounding. In the darkness of the hooch the Vietnamese must have heard some sound. He must've known I was there." "The following night the grunts were on full alert. A couple of klicks from our position, basketball flares lit the darkness in an errie orange light. Someone was getting probed. The flares would fall slowly, trailing a gray smoke as they faded. One of the grunts opened up at the tree line with his M-60 then stopped. He was feeling the jitters. We all did. In the distance I could hear artillery fire missions and see flashes of light on the horizon. You could almost feel a seismic disturbance; see the flashes of light then eventually the sound." ‘It wasn't until about 1993 when I received several roles of archived tape from the 'Navy Yard' and scanned some of the III M.A.F. reports for those months down in Quang Ngai Province; that I read material completely unknown to me in 1966. Monthly reports spanning some ten months in chronological sequence described Quang Ngai Province as a hot bed of Viet Cong activity with unit strengths and numbers totaling up to as much as 9,000 enemy in the region at any given time. On the LZ not counting a couple of pilots and their door gunner; there were about sixteen of us. 565 against 1 didn't seem fair’. "The flashes of artillery missions on the horizon reminded me of the 'heat' lightning storms in the Southwest Iowa that lit up the night sky. In the tropical darkness of 'upcountry' Mauna Loa on the 'Big Island' of Hawaii I now lie in bed and watch the lightning flashes over the 'Kapapala' Forest Reserve on the Southern slopes of the giant shield volcano Mauna Loa. It reminds me of the arty' missions twenty seven years ago."
"One of the chopper pilots came up to me at the LZ and asked if I could help him medevac a grunt off a hill several miles Southwest of us. I said, 'Okay!' Captain Cholara echoed the decision, and said, Go!' The Uh-34d lifted off taking the ever present sniper fire as we cleared the tree line on the South approach of the packed red clay hard-dirt airstrip." ‘It had been built in the late 1930's during the Japanese invasion of the Indochine. The berms they built were originally 'U' shapped to protect one Japanese 'Zero' fighter from the next in case of attack. The berms had collapsed over the decades and filled with mud and water. The airstrip survived’. "The '34-Dog' gained cruising altitude at 1,500 feet as we raced South for about thirty minutes. The mountains were on the starboard side of the aircraft. In the distance several columns of black smoke rose from a group of small hills. We seemed to be heading for the summit of one of the taller peaks." "The bird slowed and nosed up to hover for landing and Marines were already frantically waving us to their position. I jumped from the load door and ran down a small winding footpath leading to a stand of trees at the base of the hill." "The bodies of dead Marines, covered with poncho liners were lying in the shade of a copse of trees. Nearby lay a Marine Lieutenant. He shouldn't have been more than twenty-four. He looked like he was middle aged. He looked my age. I was 19, the youngest geriatric person in-country. He was Caucasian, short hair, with a rapidly fading pinkness in his face and cheeks. A large part of the right side of his neck was ripped apart by shrapnel or a high velocity round that impacted in just the right place at the wrong time." "As I approached; a grunt was trying to manage a mangled Carotid artery and useless desiccated and hopelessly mangeled tissue. Blood was pooled heavily around the platoon leader's shoulders. The bleeding had been profuse and not discovered early enough to help. I placed the grunt's hand over the site of the squirting artery, and made him compress harder. After that I started two I.V.s, one in each arm as fast as I could. The grunt moved to one side and handed the man's head over; supporting his back as he laid his friend's head and shoulders on my lap. I compressed the artery. His breathing was shallow, rapid and labored." ‘It is said that fighting birth is harder than fighting death. I wouldn't know. I do know that life when confronted with death struggles with a strength not seen in other circumstances. In this death life didn't have a chance. Most who received combat injuries of this nature did not have the benefit of I.V. solutions. In most cases had these volume expanders been available to every Corpsman in the field a few less casualties of war; a few less names on the 'Wall' would have prevailed. Cases of 'Ringer's D5W' don't do anyone a hell'uva lot of good stacked on a remote LZ’. "His friend knelt beside him. 'You're okay now, you're okay. Don't you go nowhere LT., jus' stay right here, you're gonna be home soon. 'Doc' here's gonna fix you up. Don't you go nowhere LT.' Tears ran freely down his face. His commanding officer and friend was dying. He knew it, but couldn't let go. He was speaking, shouting, pleading, whispering, moaning, terrified, repeating himself over and over, trying to talk his platoon leader into coming back to join the living." "The Marine Corps Lieutenant died. The Marine kept pleading with him, looking at me for some sort of miracle. His tears welled up again and poured down his face. He realized his friend was gone. Flesh flies were swarming the warm coagulating blood, soon; given the chance they would attempt to deposit their eggs so that their maggot off spring would have a source of food. The smell of death surrounded me, and permeated the air. The dead Marine's face already had the jaundiced waxy appearance of death."
"We placed him on his poncho-liner and rolled him in it's protective layers and placed him with his other men who had died in the predawn hours. A detail of grunts carried the dead officer up the hill and placed his body next to the other 'K.I.A.'s I returned up the path to the waiting '34-Dog'; I climbed in. Another helicopter out of Chu-Lai would pick up the dead on a resupply run. The chopper's rotors were whirling towards lift off speed as the crew chief smacked my arm for attention and pointed down the hill." "Below, five or six Marines were carrying a screaming grunt; he was fighting mad as they physically hauled him up the path to our helicopter on the hill. As they approached, their captive appeared to have lost all touch with reality. He was wild eyed, hysterical and screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. He was lost in his insanity, or possibly rejoicing in the protective isolation of his new found madness. I don't know. Maybe there is no difference." "I jumped outside and the grunts forced the madman in the load door. They bound each arm with canvas cargo straps to the port bulkhead of the aircraft, then reinforced their work with another heavy strap across his chest. The grunts leaped out. I grabbed the load door, put one foot up to pull myself in and looked down to double check my foothold. As I looked up the deranged Marine tore loose from his bonds like Houdini, as if they were made of 'papier maché'. He was screaming hysterically, and kicked me square in the jaw, knocking me somersault, ass over tea kettle right back out of the load door." “The crew chief was yelling and gesturing to me to get off my ass, the tail wheel was off the ground and they were taking off. I turned and watched several men chasing the lunatic down the path and through the bush as we lifted off." ‘I still remember that door gunner yelling at me to get off my ass and get in the bird. His tone seemed to indicate that I actually enjoyed being physically kicked out of load doors and was simply on a lark, grab-assing as it were’.
"We moved thirty or forty feet, tail-up, nose-down, then sat down so hard I thought the wheel struts were going to give way under the sudden force of the landing. The pilot was hit. Sniper fire! He yelled down that he was okay and the copilot had control. We were off, heading for still another medevac further South somewhere Southwest of Mo Duc and inside ‘2-CTZ’ North of Kontum, An Lao, I don't remember. I knew that was 'doggie' country, and I didn't understand our mission, but what the hell! Nothing made sense. The 'doggies' had more and better stuff than us. Right?" "Ron, when you were talking about the Platoon leader; a Marine dying in your arms, while his friend watched, I thought for a brief moment that your eyes were tearing slightly. Did you feel something just then?" The counselor asked softly. 'Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste death but once'. "Yeah I did Nat! By-God-fucking-Jesus brought Lazareth back from the dead, but he only did it once. Doctors do it several times a day as easily as store clerks scan bar codes...apparently I was not up to the challenge. I was not good enough to yank that foreshortened officer's life back from threshold of death. Why do you ask me these moronic questions! Son-of-a-bitch! I'm sick of this shit!" Natasha thought she had me! "Well, you're wrong, so don't break out a new box of hankies!" I lashed out harshly. "Those people had or have plenty of people to cry and wring hands over them. You don't need my two cents worth." "Is that why you always wear those sunglasses in here?" She was relentless. "To mask the tears; are your eyes red? Are you on the verge of crying?" "No! If I was I'd switch to a dive mask with internal windscreen wipers. Besides Nat, my Lacrimal glands work only on demand, not provocation no matter how subtle. You can surrender anytime sweet pea." "Your recollections, as you've said, are not in any chronological sequence. At this point, where the Marine just died, how many dead had you previously encountered?" she asked; finally sounding more like a bureaucrat interested in stats than the human condition. "I don't know, It was in October, 1966 or was it November? I arrived in late May or early June. The figure '38.65' K.I.A.'s seems to stick out in my mind." Her mouth was pinched. She was giving me her best squinty-eyed look of official federal disapproval. ‘For 'Official Federal Looks of Disapproval' see the public law posted in the Federal Register’. "Oh! I see," I apologized, "you're concerned about the decimal point. I am sincerely and profoundly sorry. You see, some of the people were dead from the neck down; hence the fraction. It's like the average home has 2.3 children and 1.6 parents." My standard 'smart-ass' smirk, punctuated the explanation. "Fuck you Ron!" She lashed out. "Want to hear about the 'W.I.A.'s (Wounded in Action) Nat? As I recall in October, 1966 out of 100 'W.I.A.'s, 29.6 percent were treated in the field and returned to duty, 48 percent of the wounded were hospital admissions but eventually returned to duty; while 15.8 percent of those were evacuated from Vietnam only to be treated and returned to duty in Vietnam, and approximately 30 percent were evacuated to CONUS." "Screw you Ron!" "What can I say Nat? 15.8 percent means someone left without an arm or leg or something, go figure?" I flung the archival report in her direction. She ignored it. "Let's see III M.A.F. says that in January and February, 1966 we only lost 150 Marines a month! March we lost 250. April we lost 225. May we fucked up and lost 700! June we lost 375; while in July we lost 400. August was around 300. September we lost 500. October we lost 300. November 225; and December, 1966 we only lost 200! Is that fucking accurate enough for you?" I flipped that archive page at her as well. "Of course from January to June, 1966 'Charlie' lost 2,400 people a month and by December, 1966 he was losing only 1700 per month this was because he was either becoming smarter, or simply running out of VC guys." I dodged one of Natasha's flying pencils. "Do you 'throw' darts at the pub?" She rewarded me with a blank look and an extended middle finger. ‘She didn’t have a clue. In retrospect I would hazard a guess that a good deal of attrition in ‘Victor Charlie’s’ ranks probably had something to do with the ‘Zoomies’ B-52’s out of Guam running their ‘Arc Light’ campaign. A strategy designed to give pilots flight time, bombing practice in preparation for a career with TWA or crop dusting.’ ‘Today the government of Vietnam is bitching about the 300,000 plus missing in action. I suspect most are buried in their own tunnel systems’.
"How the fuck do you expect me to remember how many dead I encountered, or how many injured lived? Most were dumped off at Chu-Lai. I didn't get follow-up reports like a physician's 'Thank you for this referral, and here's our findings' letter." “The Marine Corps didn't send me post mortem reports either. Like I could, if I had one, check my incoming mail box for clinical reports: Lieutenant 'Innocent Bystander' died as a result of wounds sustained to the Right Anterio-Lateral aspect of the Cervical region. Post mortem examination reveals extensive soft tissue destruction to the: Right External Carotid Artery, Internal Jugular, Thyroid gland, External Jugular, Vagus nerve complex, portions of the Medial, Anterior, and Posterior Scalenus musculature. Extensive destruction includes most superficial veins, arteries, lymph vessels and nodes underlying theSternocleidomastoid muscle." ‘The Surgeon General warns: Decapitation is hazardous to your health and may complicate pregnancy’. "Is that what you're after Natasha? I know that shit now. I didn't know shit then and it made little difference. The death was caused by a large, jagged, piece of Russian-made iron traveling at the same speed as a low velocity bullet or a high velocity AK-47 round that hit solid bone and fragmented like an exploding grenade. It nearly ripped the head off along with the shoulder girdle. I don't know what the fuck you want to hear. He died and it was my fault. I didn't have the ability to save him.” “Didn't you know Nat? Divine justice is based on what you did 'not' do, not on what you 'did'! In other words I'm fucked!" ‘I paused briefly, allowing my heart rate to decelerate, I'm too old for this shit’! "All I know is he's on the 'Wall' now, like so many others. Despite that I prevented a few from ending up on the 'Wall' but that simply is not good enough. I know it, you know, the dead know it!" "Have you seen our picture outside?" She inquired softly. "You mean the older businessman leaning forward with one hand on the 'Wall', with the reflections of the dead Vietnam veterans doing the same in a mirror image of compassionate remembrance? The living hand pressed against the reflective ghostly hand of the dead; bonding in remembrance?" "Yes," She said quietly.
"You know Natasha, I hate that picture. It's only purpose is to invoke some sort of hysterical emotional response from all the poor bastards who stumble through those doors." "That's not so Ron." "If you want to depict the veterans eternal struggle, why don't you hang a big wall painting showing disabled veterans being forced to bend over their wheelchairs; butt fucked by VA administrators with crowds of politicians lined up for sloppy seconds? While your at it why don't you have those placating motherfuckers out front get rid of the crayons in the lobby before I feed'em to that faggot assed desk clerk out there!" Natasha sat quietly, waiting patiently for my anger to abate. "I think we've covered that subject," She said, "Let's move forward." "Why the fuck not! Where was I?" "After we lifted off, we flew Northwest for a short while. Below was the same endless patchwork quilt of rice paddies interrupted by tree lines, with the exploring fingers of jungle spilling from the foothills above, invading the agriculture below; trying to reclaim the land that had been usurped for over a thousand years." ‘Hell! I don’t remember. If the mountains were on the starboard side your flying South; ifthe South China Sea was on the starboard side you were flying North. At night it didn’t make any difference’. "I could see black smoking columns rising ahead. As we closed the distance, detonations of explosives became visually and audibly apparent. In a small clearing, near a densely forested tree line, Marines were puffing red smoke canisters, indicating a 'hot LZ'. A landing zone under hostile fire. This is to distinguish hostile LZ's from LZ's under friendly fire, you see." "As we made the rapid descent, I put a death grip on a cargo strap,and hung on for dear life. I could clearly see black-pajama clad Vietcong running in and out of the protective cover of the trees. They were raking the Marine's defensive position with AK-47 fire. A platoon or more of Marines were dug in behind rice paddy berms, in a large semicircle. I could see the VC firing at us as we made our approach." "Indiscriminate little holes appeared in the aircraft's fuselage as the projectiles found their target. No one was hit. The crew chief was half sitting, half standing in his seat, firing his M-60 almost non stop at the guerrillas below. The over heated tip of the flash suppresser appeared to glow a dull orange. Spent 7.62 mm cartridges littered the deck; bouncing and dancing across the steel surface like brass popcorn. Hearing was impossible. The combined clamor of multiple automatic weapons fire, mortar detonations, and helicopter rotors gyrating at full powered speed reduced communication to a visual exchange of hand gestures, and lip reading. It was deafening."
"Four Marines made a huddled dash towards us carrying a wounded man in a poncho liner. Suppressive cover fire elevated the decibel level a few more notches as they slid the man onto the steel deck of the chopper's cargo bay. Blood was everywhere. The grunts were already running like hell back to their positions as we lifted off hard and fast. The boy was horribly wounded. He had severe facial, neck and upper chest injuries; probably from point blank detonation of a grenade, or mortar blast." "Can you describe the injury?" Natasha intruded. "Yeah of course. I remember it as vividly as if it happened just a few minutes ago, but why do you need a blow-by-blow of the gory details? What? Don't you ever have a chance to get out of this office and chase ambulances like everyone else, hoping for a glimpse of the blood and guts and the struggle to survive? Don't you just, deep down, secretly wish you could watch those last seconds see their eyes, feel it, sense it, and smell it; look at death; watch it work. Watch them fight it to the last, pleading for just one more breath before eternal blackness. You fuckers make me puke!" "Maybe you like to cop a discrete look at the dead bodies while the police wave you slowly through the road flares around a fatal traffic accident?" "I just want to know what you, as an nineteen year old were faced with, that's all," She said defensively. "Look Ron, forcing you to remember these details is good for you. This is a very important part of the debriefing process. I promise you'll feel better over time." "Yeah, right Nat! 'I promise' is one of the three most common lies in the world," I said. "What's the other two?" She bit...what a gal! I looked at her a moment, smirking lewdly, "'The check is in the mail' and 'Don't worry, I promise! I won't cum in your mouth'." Her face reddened. "Look Nat, you aren't 'forcing' me to remember, I can do that daily, without your coaching." "The memory is very vivid, all my senses remember. The smells are strong; a collage of odors. The smell of fuel, av-gas and solvents. The smell of the rice paddies and rotting vegetation combined with odors of human and animal excrement used as fertilizer. It's essence permeates theland. There is the acrid smell of cordite and gunpowder, while all around me is the over powering smell of fresh blood. Wind rushing through the open load door during flight only served to intensify the olfactory stimulation." "It was sickly sweet. Blood covered the deck of the helicopter. The dark pewter surface of the steel deck was now a bright red, as though someone had dumped paint on the deck, not bothering to brush stroke it neatly with careful application. It appeared to be deep, thick and coagulating in spots." "The man's facial injuries were extensive. Hell, he was a boy. He was eighteen if a day. Most of his jaw was gone, along with soft tissue structures in his mouth. The nose and cartilaginous structures were missing or mangled. Portions of the Cricoid were damaged, and exposed. Like any facial or head injury, the hemorrhaging was extensive and profuse." "What is the Cricoid?" Natasha interjected quickly, "You've used that term a few times today."
"It's the lump in your throat. You know, that little bump that jumps up and down, and tries to 'slow dance' whenever you hear a Barry Manilow song, or 'The Stars & Stripes Forever'," I responded sarcastically; grinning broadly. I loved her 'set ups', she was the perfect straight-man, ‘sorry feminists; straight woman’. I received a warning look. "Okay...Okay! It's the lump that is so prominent in the male and less so in the female, ‘pinching my own to localize it for her’. It's the distal portion of the trachea just before it bifurcates at the Carina; going to the lungs. It houses the Ligamentum Vocale, or the vocal cords, the Glottis and Epiglottis." "It's a very popular piece of human anatomy because extensive damage to the Cricoid, resulting in death can be achieved with little or no effort. Martial artist types love to kick and punch it. Cops love to crush their batons upon it, especially if it belongs to Rodney King! I had mine surgically relocated under my armpit. It's safe there." "Look! I was paralyzed with the knowledge that any experienced trauma team would have found this boy's condition beyond the scope of any one physician's expertise. If the boy was to have any chance of survival it would have been from a technical collaboration of experts, in plastic, vascular, orthopedic, and other surgical specialties. Beyond that, I never considered the boy's quality of life, following a period of convalescence. Life or death was the issue at hand. Anything beyond that was a long way off, where minutes and hours are measured by extremes such as eternity; or pure fantasy." "Yet there he lay, in a terrified panic, hanging on to life for a few more minutes, coughing and choking in a pool of blood. His salvation rested in the purview of a scared high school graduate, who didn't have a driver's license much less a medical degree. I was hopelessly under qualified."
"The boy kept clutching desperately at my flak-jacket. I elevated his Posterior cervical region, forcing his head back, and attempted to clear an airway. He began aspirating blood. His airway, crushed and traumatized, prohibited normal respiratory effort. He was in shock, and probably had skull fractures. The boy began choking violently. I turned him on his left side, and tried to allow the profuse bleeding to fall away from him. The volume of blood being forcibly aspirated was reduced. Breathing was still labored and difficult." "The amount of blood on the deck served as a reminder that he was on the verge of cardiac arrest. I felt death would come soon, certainly within ten minutes. I ran two I.V.s, simultaneously, running everything I had trying to forestall cardiac failure. No matter how many liters you run, you're not replacing red cells. I frantically dug and searched for larger vascular bleeders, trying to pinch them off with the few hemostats I had available." "The crew chief was sitting in his gun chair, staring dispassionately out the load door, watching the landscape pass below. I got his attention, and told him the boy was not going to survive the flight. He nodded in acknowledgment and indicated it would be another twenty minutes to Mag-36. I nudged the crew chief again...pointing to his watch; miming the question, given the noise of the open load door...what was our 'E.T.A.' for Chu-Lai? He shrugged and nodded forward." "I looked up between the raised deck of the pilots cockpit and saw the pilot in the right seat, only partially, his arm hanging limply. The seat and the deck below it was a waterfall of blood spilling down the bulkhead. Apparently sniper fire had penetrated his Plexiglas. The guy in the left seat was driving without any help on the right." "I asked the gunner to call in and describe the critical nature of the boy's injuries. I assume he did so. When we sat down, a team of people met us on the tarmac. They grabbed the boy and ran."
"I sat there completely saturated with blood. My fatigue trousers were a sticky ooze clinging to my legs. When the trauma team grabbed the kid he was still alive, just barely, but alive nevertheless. I never saw him again and like all the others I don't know if he survived. I could never bring myself to ask either. I didn't want to know. I jumped out. There were people pulling the chopper pilot from his seat. They tried to lay him on a stretcher, apparently he was still alive. He shoved them away, stood and clamped a death grip on a nurse's shoulder and walked with her to triage! Unfucking believable! He had a bullet in his head!" "The crew chief was hosing down the chopper's cargo bay. The black tarmac, coated in a film of red dust, accepted the bloody wash off as it had done so many times before and no doubt would do so again. Both dust and blood were the same color when dried, you couldn't tell anyone had been there. The very essence of their lives washed onto the tarmac eventually dried to dust. It then was blown into the South China sea by little dust devils of wind." ‘The monotone funeral dirge: 'Earth to earth; ashes to ashes' ran through my head; Natasha could not hear the blessing of burials’. "I could not bring myself to enter the triage tent at the hospital. It would look and smell like the kill floor in a packing plant. I was in hell and wanted to go somewhere and hide. These people could go on inflicting death and injury on each other without my participation. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be lying over there at 'Graves Registration'." "I must've been standing out on the open tarmac, staring blankly at the South China sea; oblivious to the heat and swirling activity taking place around me. A Navy nurse fresh of the 'Repose' just off shore, wearing green scrubs came up, and asked me to follow her. I startled at her interruption and starred openly at her fresh clean American face. She gestured again. I grabbed my gear and followed. She took me to a tent and handed me a pile of clean fatigues, a towel, and a bar of soap and led me to a make shift shower stall." "I know what your going through," The nurse said simply. Without another word she turned and walked back to triage. 'A cool touch of a hand on my brow, love and care without reason'.
"I took a long, leisurely shower, standing under the water allowing it to run wastefully under the pallet floor, knowing full well that the tank would have to be refilled before another could use it. The wood slat floor was red with the Marine's blood. I washed it away, toweled off and dressed; throwing my blood soaked uniform in the nearest trash barrel." “Out on the tarmac the Uh-34d was powering up for it's return to the staging LZ down South near Mo Doc, Quang Ngai Province, 'I-Corps', the Southern most district of the III M.A.F.'s tactical area of responsibility.” "On the East end of the tarmac, near the cliff overlooking the South China Sea, stands a small building, a shed actually. The Marine/Naval designation was 'Graves Registration' a Kafkaesque term uniquely military. No one knows the logic behind the terminology. Perhaps it was a hotel or convention center for dead people. 'If you're dead please register at the 'Graves Registration' desk. Your cooperation will be greatly appreciated. Mahalo!" "This little building was about the size of a two car garage. Two walls were open air; due to the tropical heat. Inside a young black Navy enlisted man, wearing a green tee-shirt and fatigues was methodically taking inventory of a dead Marine's personal effects. The deceased teenager lay partially exposed in an olive-green body bag. Dried caked blood streaked and covered the blackened burnt corpse. His face and upper torso had that familiar waxy jaundiced hue of death. His eyes were open, the pupils flat and lifeless." “Behind the 'Graves Registration' worker were racks of bodies in bags stacked six high. There were several racks. A large body of personnel, literally a small army itself, existed to process, transport and bury the dead.” “I looked at other dead faces patiently waiting their turn for processing and the trip home. Even in death you were apparently required to wait in line for your eventual turn. Where were they all from? Who were they? How would their deaths affect their families? What purpose had been served to justify their premature deaths in the Vietnam conflict?” “My life had changed forever. I was not the same naive farm boy from Southwest Iowa. I would never be the same again. Like Mr. Wolfe said so eloquently, ...’you can never go home again’...” "I realized I had been talking to a pane of glass. Talking to a window. I looked at Nat. Her eyes were wide open; her expression stunned. Her face was a mask. Frozen. Natasha abruptly said, "Our time is up for today, see you next Tuesday, okay?" "Sure! How 'bout lunch, real lunch, no horse chow, my treat, I know a wonderful 'dive'?" "Next Tuesday!" She barked. "Don't be late!" I left without a word pondering her final word 'late'. "Don't be late!" She said. I stepped outside into the bright noon day Hawaiian sun and looked below, down the hill, where the little Cantina sat. It was open for business, and I was ready for some beer call. "Late" She said, as I sat at the bar mouthing her last words to myself over and over. I ordered a 'bud' A thought dropped by as I took my first sip of cold beer. "Fuck lady! I'm 32 years too late!" -END-
'Kissing The Gunner's
Daughter'
Dedicated to 'Graves Registration Personnel'
‘This is a composite excerpt from journalistic
accounts and manuscripted material from Ron 'Doc' Ferrell's
Copyright: 1975 - 2001 By - Ron ‘Doc’ Ferrell |
