The Sins of Doc Rat

Triage

Once they got me up on my left side, my bad side, it was better. The new corpsman had me on my right side and I couldn’t breathe hardly at all. Then Doc Russell shows up and flips me over an’ somebody found the entry and was jammin’ their palm flat on a piece of cellophane over the hole. That stopped the suckin’ and whistling. I can do real short gasping. 

I know how a fish feels now. When it’s been reeled in, got the shit knocked out of it, an’ then thrown up on the bank to die. Their eyes bug out. They gulp for something that’s goin’ to keep them alive. Somethin’ real close by. Somethin’ that’s been taken away from them on purpose.

Sometimes they look like they’ve seen a secret thing way out there.

Then they die.

And you can’t hurt ’em ever again. Never.

Doc is workin’ my body quick. Talkin’ soft. Playin’ his game. Workin’ for time. I’ve seen this routine too many times before – I ain’t buyin’ it.

The blood feels warm and good. Figures move. The daylight has gone completely. Another round drops in; shrapnel slices the air. A 16 walks a short burst. I can’t see. They’re talking. Firing tracers. Someone spotted the tube. One … Two … Three rounds leave their tube. Doc and someone else lay on top of me and tuck my head in.

Seconds go by.

They begin down … as they gain momentum they become shrill. They detonate hard and flat and the earth shakes; stutters. Between Doc’s thumb and fingers I can see quick light.

Our mortar spits a round skyward – a spotter. My mind is becoming more clear by the second. I watch but I am not part of this. I am the fish.

Doc is telling me I can’t have morphine. He says I know the rules for a sucking chest wound. He wants me to talk, to stay awake. He calls me a pussy ’cause he knows I flash fast on insults. I only nod.

He works and talks gentle the whole time. 

Ain’t no big thing. Just my turn.

How many of those slant-eyed fuckers have I starched in eighteen months? “Where ever goes a round comes a round,” Ski used to say.

The spotter detonates about 100 meters out. I can hear someone yell: “Come right 10, drop 20 and fire for effect.” In seconds, the rounds begin to skim down the tubes and belch into the night.

Blood comes into my mouth. I try to spit but it just drools out, onto my shoulder. More comes up and I gag and it brings up a lot more and it’s like I’m puking; it blows out my nose too. That hurt. But it’s okay ’cause the pain is dull and far away.

I can’t even tell where all I’ve been hit.

Hands gently lift my head and upper body. The straps of a large battle dressing come under me, laced between my arms and chest, and they lay me back down. They pull it to the hand holding the cellophane. The hand eases off and they cinch the straps in snug, compressing the bandage and shutting the blow hole.

I still can’t breathe right but at least I’m not pumpin’ blood out my back. And somebody got their hand back.

I don’t really care anyway. We’re just goin’ through the motions.
~ ~ ~

Blinding White Light to left: ROAR-FLAT BLAST sucks all sound into a vacuum.

 … voices … far away … I can’t … throbbing, drone … where is my weapon? … squashing sound around me … gray, dusty haze … gunpowder … I am on my back … how, … why am I here? … I was not here before the Light … desperate voices are closer … one voice is screaming … I must pull my mind together … it is important I pull my mind … I have to get up … I have to fight … I have been knocked down by a Light … by a noise so loud that it disappeared … concussion; I skated another one … I am not hurt … how long have I been down? Five seconds? Ten? … Five seconds is a lifetime in a firefight … I must hurry … the voice screaming belongs to Flint … I have to help Flint, I have to fight … have to get up …

I can’t breathe …

Suck air in, goes out a hole in my back … whistles out hissing … like I got the wind knocked out of me: breathe in, not out …

I’ve been hit in the lung.

I am going to die.

Shouldn’t I be scared? … this ain’t scary at all. The bullshit is about to be over … my turn is all … Flint is hurt bad … got to get to him, help him … ain’t no one can help me.

Roll onto my side; can’t sit up straight. I twist around in the trench … there is lots of blood … I’ve been hit more than once … crawl toward the screaming … Man, how far did I get thrown? I was right next to Flint when their spotter dropped in … Flint uncovered the gun … some rounds went up and then there was the Light … no shit …

I feel it comin’ … draw up a mouth full of blood and puke it out … fuckin’ hell … don’t feel real strong just now. Slither on, sliming through my blood … haze, noise … incoming rounds are walking all over the hill … softening us up for an assault?

There’s Flint … floppin’ like a snake just had its head lopped off … crawl to him … man, my strength is going fast, drainin’ out with my blood – leaving my body …

I grab Flint … with what I got left I pull myself on top of him … he is screaming: “I’M HIT! I’M HIT!” … I want to draw his pain into me, give it to me and I can take it when I die … if another round hits I can soak up most of the shrapnel. Try to speak, tell Flint. I make a noise but it’s not words. Flint stops, grabs me, rolls me onto my back … try to stop him, he doesn’t understand … I can’t … he’s yelling. “CORPSMAN UP! GET A CORPSMAN!” … he groans, it hurt him to yell like that; can tell he’s in a lot of pain …

Goddamn I hate this fucking world.

I try to tell him never mind – it’s too late for me … I can only gag … more blood fountains up … rounds explode, he crawls on top of me to absorb the impact … try to push him away but I am too weak. Screams again for the corpsman. Another groan, it’s killing him to call out. Can’t he understand I’m dyin’? …

Where’s that loud mouth asshole DeeTroit? … disappeared during Stand To; visitin’ his bros probably. He’s dead, hit or froze up – all talk – no one here to operate the gun – neutralize the 60 and the gooks can zip right through the gap and kill every swingin’ dick on campus. That piece of dogshit better be dead or more fucked up than me …

Where’s my goddamn weapon? … fuckin’ shit.

Flint is close to my face. I want to tell him about the gap, the machine gun; I want him to promise me he will blow that asswipe Mr. DeeTroit’s shit away if the gooks don’t get him first. I want to know someone is going to scatter that spineless, loudmouth motherfucker for leaving us here alone. It is important for me to know that someone takes him off tonight. Fuckin’ gutless slime.

I’m desperately trying to make Flint understand but my words just turn to blood and rage: there is still so much killin’ to do …

Flint is trying to tell me something … he is pressing his face close to mine. I can see him fighting down his own pain. He’s telling me to hold on, the Corpsman is coming any minute.

I can see his eyes. See through his lie; his promise of a tomorrow. Hey, who do you think you’re shittin’ here, stud? Some new guy? I’ve used that line too many times myself, lyin’ through my teeth. He’s close up and I can read my death in his eyes; he’s lookin’ hard to see the Glaze come on … If I could just tell him that he is my friend, that I love him – that I’m not afraid at all. If I could just tell him these few stupid things … but I can’t.

None of it matters anymore.

I’m glad it’s finally about to end.