BeachRed17

Chapter 11

The platoon passes on into the thicket and Lt. Nixon

orders the men to keep a sharp lookout for snipers.

He steps on a game trail leading into the interior

and motions for the leading squad to fall in behind.

You scrutinize the bark of the trees all around you

for the telltale notches that snipers make to facilitate climbing,

and vigilance enters your mind and collects in the corners

and your thoughts contract themselves into beads that you twist

on a tenuous string with no knot at the end.

Oh, hell — why search for something that you can't see?

Why be afraid of pain that you may never feel?

Battle is a huge clockwork and your squad is one

of its little wheels and every time the hands meet

they pinch off another bit of existence. It's a force

that keeps driving you on and you can't control it,

so add up your chances and throw away the result.

The winding lane angles off into a muddy stream bed

and the column takes more interval and eyes become expectant.

And then, with the unwelcome drama of dreaded fulfillment, there

is a spasm of sound and a bullet's smarting splash

and Mouse clutches at his hip and goes down groaning.

The Lieutenant cries, "Get off the trail! Hurry! Take cover!"

You leave the path and crash into the bordering overgrowth.

Mouse is bleeding in a crimson spread from his thigh

and is shocked at what he sees but cannot believe.

Lindstrom tries to worm his way toward the wounded man,

but Lt. Nixon grabs his shoulder, saying, "For Christ's sake

don't go out there! The bend is covered. It's suicide!

Where's a medic? Send a medic up here right away!"

Four men are detailed to make a wide circling movement

and approach the sniper's suspected position from

mmmseveral different points

and their helmets and splotch uniforms disappear into the foliage

and you see curses forming on compressed and clamped mouths.

Here comes one of the company medical corpsmen and he

coolly crawls out into the open trail where Mouse lies.

He doesn't wear a red-cross brassard — no aidman does

since the Jap snipers deliberately select them as choice targets.

Your rifle is poised to shoot at any suspicious flurry

in surrounding trees and your vision is halved by the

spectacle of the medic's approach and the danger above him

and you watch the clumsy geometry of a body suffering.

He reaches Mouse and with a deft and practiced motion

pulls him around to face in the direction of safety.

Then he firmly loops his wrists under the boy's armpits

and with a bizarre exhibition of swimming on dry land

drags the casualty back to cover behind a convenient log.

He sprinkles sulfa powder on the wound and he takes

the prepared bandage out of Mouse's first-aid pouch and

rips away the shredded trouser and patches him with gauze.

Then he takes out his hypodermic and removes the shield

and prepares the needle and syrette, and breaks the seal

and punctures the skin of Mouse's arm in a diagonal

thrust and squeezes the tube, withdrawing the needle. Next, he

extracts a tag and prepares to note all the information

so that the battalion aid station may be guided accordingly

when the litter bearers take the man to the rear.

The medic says, "We've got some pretty fair pillrollers, kid,

and if you haven't got more than thirty bullet holes

there ain't a Goddamn thing for you to worry about."

Gallantry isn't written of or talked about. It's done.

>>> Next chapter

>>> List of chapters