I wrote this a number of years ago. It was one of my editorials back
in the day when I still did some editorial work for newspapers. I
dedicate it to the fantastic people serving in all branches of the Armed
Forces today. This old Soldier appreciates the job you are doing!
Ravages Of War
The year was 1967 and the jungle was filled with the stench of napalm
and burning vegetation. Chaos reigned: both sides were confused and
scrambling to save themselves from the onslaught of the raging battle.
It was to no avail for far too many. Dead and dying soldiers littered
the landscape. Hell on earth, made even more real by the dancing
wickedness of the flames taunting them, showed that Heaven was perhaps
nothing more than a myth, an abstract of reality.
We huddled
together for a brief moment, discussing what needed to be done, and then
raced to save those we could; those with some kind of flickering
glimmer of hope. Sadly, there were not many within reach of a helping
hand.
There were perhaps a dozen of us still able to walk,
and we carried the wounded out on makeshift stretchers made from old
blankets and whatever other materials we could scrounge up for the
purpose. It was a long trek back to rejoin our main command post, but we
persevered, ever aware of the hazards ahead. We hadn't even reached the
end of the evening before we lost some of our wounded.
Time. Time was a major factor. It was not working in our favor.
On the second night, I noticed a young grunt who was in excruciating
pain, sounds of its intensity filling the jungle air. His leg . . . his
leg was the cause of it all. He was trying to reach it with his hands,
almost looking as if he wanted to tear the offending limb from his body.
I took my knife and cut his pants leg to his knee. Staring at his
tortured face for a couple seconds, I called for my comrades.
Silence, the horrid silence accompanying impending doom stared us in
the face. His leg was obviously full of gangrene. It had to be removed
or this young man would die. No need to tell him: we simply had to do
it. There were no options.
Yes, we had no anesthesia; nothing
other than a bottle of Jack Daniels. We used it, making sure he was
well looped before we cleaned and disinfected the knife in the flames of
the fire we had made.
The time came to do what had to be
done, but everyone froze: who could possibly perform the operation? We
were soldiers, not medics. I was the youngest, only eighteen at the
time, but all eyes focused on me. Shit! The life of this man was in my
hands. I had only read of this type of thing, enough to know about
tourniquets and such, but I took the knife in my hand and did what was
necessary, the pain experienced by the soldier ripping through the
jungle.
He collapsed into unconsciousness. His torment for
the moment was over. We had no way of knowing if we had been in time to
save him, but we could hope. There was always hope.
Forty years later, I was standing on line in a local McDonalds, waiting
on my food, when I noticed a man standing in front of me. He was on
crutches, one leg missing beneath the knee. His face . . . his face had a
familiarity I couldn't place: not at first, anyway.
He must have felt the glare of my stare on his back because he turned and returned my glance with one of his own.
"Khe Sahn, 1967," I said.
"Yes," he said."How did you know?"
I shuffled around nervously. "Your leg. I'm the one who cut your leg off."
He stared back at me, intensity building in his stare. "For years, I
hated you. I didn't know who you were, but I hated you. You cut off my
leg! I wasn't whole. The torture of rehabilitation was unbearable. The
thought of revenge if I should ever meet you was what kept me going.
Then one day a doctor told me you saved my life and that that was better
than dying in that infernal Hell-hole."
No more words were
said by either of us for about a minute. Then he said, "Thank you,
brother! You saved my life. I owe you big time!"
We stood
there and hugged, tears falling unashamedly from both our eyes. We
talked for awhile about life and loves won and lost, and we parted ways.
It doesn't take Thanksgiving to make someone thankful.
Life. Having life and knowing others made it through the harshest of times is plenty of thanks for me.
Blaze McRob
