John Coultas
Copyright © 2012
“Connor it ain't
my doing.” Connor is pissed. But Connor is always pissed at
something. He is coming off twelve hours on the perimeter. Twelve
hours up in a tower, heat bearing down, staring at rice paddies, and
nothing happening. No Viet Cong, not even a farmer tending his crop.
Just the occasional water buffalo plodding across the diked fields.
I'm going home.
Connor is staying right here, until his number comes up. I didn't
exist to him until he realized another guy is going to be leaving
country before him. Now, I materialized before him. Some guy that
pulled strings. Kissed up, so he thought. Connor didn't get it, you
serve your time and then off you go. Home. This is no conspiracy
here.
Today Connor is
scarier than usual: glassy, red-rimmed eyes, shaky hands, drool at
the side of his mouth. What's the drug of choice today?
“You ain't going”
Connor's voice trembles, the muzzle of his M-16 comes up, waving
across my chest.“Cool it man. No need to get upset. Let's talk.”
I sooth.
“Talk, nothin'.
I'm taking your place. Freedom bird is goin'a take me home. Tha’s
jus’ the way it’ll be!” Connor wipes at his mouth.
I watch his finger.
It twitches over the trigger. “Damn you.” I reach out grabbing
the muzzle, push it aside. Everything is going in slow motion. The
flashes. The thump, thump sound. The burning heat. There is no pain.
“Connor, you gotta be the worlds worst shot.”
I’m on the floor,
looking up at the ceiling. Flat on my back. Boots are thumping on the
barrack’s floor. Shouts: “Call the medics!” “Waste of time!”
“Get that weapon away from Connor before he kills someone else!”
“Captain’s going to raise hell.” “Forget the Captain, he’s
drunk as usual.”
I say, “Hey guys
nothing to worry about, probably nothing but a grazing wound. Get me
up from here.”
“Medics were in
the mess hall, here they come.” Someone is saying.
Another shout.
There is so much noise. “Is that Connors I hear crying” I seem to
be the only calm person in the hootch.
“Didn’t mean to
shoot him. Thing jus’ wen’ off.” Yeah, that’s Connors.
“Hey Richard.”
One of the medics, we hung out at Earnie’s hamburger stand back
home. Saturday nights we polished up our cars, cruised the boulevard
and met at Earnie’s. “Fix me up Richard. I’m going home, Julie
is waiting for me. You remember Julie.”
I look up at him,
his hands pull away my fatigue jacket, his face goes white, his
shoulders slump. With the back of his hand he swipes at his eyes.
“Jones!” He calls to the other medic, “forget the bandages.
Let’s get him on the litter.”
“Richard I’m no
medic, I know you gotta slap some bandages on somewhere. That’s
what you do. But not today?” They toss me on the olive drab canvas
litter and slowly carry me down to the field ambulance. “Come on
Richard, we can move faster than this. I gotta get back. Finish
packing.” He and Jones don’t get the message.
In the ambulance we
bounce over every pot hole and crater to be found, hardly V.I.P.
treatment. “Ill remind you of this when you get back home.” I
call over the truck noise.
I’ve seen the
dispensary Doc at work. He’s good. He’ll get these guys squared
away.
The ambulance throws
up a cloud of dust when we get to the Aid Station. Who wants to be
covered with a coat of dust. They give me the same slow walk inside.
“Richard, you know what it’s like. Wanting to see your girl.
Speed it up, I’m going home.”
They put me in the
corner, away from the action. Doc is finishing up, stripping off his
gloves and looks at me. Hands on his hips he does that mental triage
thing. this I could see. “Over here. I’m next.” I demand.
“Jackson, Jones
take care of our friendly fire casualty there.” The doctor calls
out, nods at me. “You call this friendly fire. Drug crazed Connor
popping off. Doc you get over here. You fix me up.”
Richard has come
back. Now he has a hefty pair of scissors. He begins cutting away my
shirt. “Stop right there! What are you doing. I need this for just
a few more days. Then I’m a civilian, no more need for Uncle Sam’s
property.”
My old friend keeps
up the cutting. He pushes me on my side, then pulls away my shredded
shirt. Now the worst begins. They take my wallet out of my back
pocket. Army ID, Michigan divers license, “No!” Don’t you dare
touch the pictures. “Doc!” I yell. “Tell them not to touch the
pictures.” Why should I have expected anyone to listen.
“Yeah, this is his
car.” Richard shows Jones the picture of my metallic blue, GTO.
“Always had it polished to a high shine.” Now the picture of
Julie. I don’t let just anyone look at her. She’s special.
Jackson shakes his head, looks her blonde hair and blue eyes, her
bright smile and the pink formal. “Prom picture.” Jackson says.
“Okay guys.” Doc
is hovering over us. “I’ll take over.” He wears a new set of
gloves, he bends down, pushes and prods. He uses his gloved fingers
to probe the wound. Where did that come from?
“Hey Doc, not so
deep. Connor just grazed me.” I protest.
Doc writes on a card
with a dangling string, hands it to Richard, who ties it around my
big toe. “What’s this all about. I’ve had enough. Take me back
to my barracks. I thought you were better than this.”
Jones, the other
medic comes over with a big bag, looks to be rubberized canvas,
smelling of disinfectants. “Okay Jackson.” Jones says. They lay
the bag on the floor and slip me inside.
“Now what?” Why
do I bother asking. No one has been talking to me since this
nightmare started. Jones pulls on the zipper, the bag begins to
close. And me, I begin shouting. “Stop! Stop! What are you doing?
I’m going home!”
