A SHORT STORY BY CHRIS DEMARCO
I'd been out of it for I don't know how long—fever, chills, hallucinations—the works. I was dragging myself out of a dark, bottomless pit where nightmares are born and grow exponentially. The dawning awareness of my surroundings was desperately struggling to replace the delirium. It was a helluva battle, but slowly, I was gaining ground and recovering my senses. Who knows, I might be able to go to the toilet soon… all by myself.
I had an urgent need to vomit—or die—or both, but before I did either, I needed to find the goddamn latrine.
Just give me a minute, I can do it. If I can only get out of this bed. What should I move first?
I stared up at the ceiling. A fan turned slowly. I vaguely remembered the last time I'd awakened. It was in the dead of night, and I was burning hot, shivering cold, and sick as a dog. What the hell does "sick as a dog" even mean? Get a grip, soldier. You're losing it again. Where was the damn latrine?
I closed my eyes, and my mind traveled back to the Central Highlands of Vietnam.
I had been on a mission as part of a Recon Platoon. Funny how that had slipped my mind.
I'm a medic—that'd slipped my mind too. A glimmer of recall. I was deathly ill and, ironically, needed a medic, but I was the only one out there. I lurched to my feet and blindly tripped over a dog-tired infantryman who'd been sleeping in a hole near me. He reflexively cursed and, with a hard shove, assisted my headlong tumble, landing me on another weary soldier. The wind and more were knocked out of me, and between gasps for air, I unloaded my guts and threw a dummy on top of the unfortunate fellow.
Somewhere far in the distance, someone was screaming, "Jesus fucking Christ, Doc, why'd you have to puke on me? Couldn't you fucking puke on fucking Maynard over there—he smells like shit anyway."
Delirious and unable to focus, I was loaded onto a Dustoff. Though most of my senses were diminished, my sense of smell was not. I caught wind of something horrible. Was it me? As the chopper lifted into the air, over the beautiful sound of the rotors, I think I heard gunfire and selfishly thought, My God, I'm glad to be getting the fuck out of here…
Okay, now that I've caught a glimpse of where I've been, and have a pretty good idea where I am—a hospital—that much seems clear; I can take stock of things—check the inventory, so to speak. Arms, legs—check. Fingers, toes—check. If I could only make it to the latrine… or is it called a bathroom in a hospital, even an Army hospital? There I go again… it doesn't matter; there should be a mirror. I can finish checking myself. I don't feel any pain… frankly, I don't feel much of anything. I'm sure I'm OK.
I am tired, though, I'm awfully tired. I'll just rest for a little longer. I'll be alright…
With that thought, my grip on consciousness weakened, and I silently slipped down into the dark hole from which I'd come.
Some time later, a nurse came around. She gently touched my shoulder and jiggled until I reluctantly surfaced and opened my eyes to yet another unfamiliar, out-of-focus world. There were blobs of light and dark, colors and movement. Gradually, my surroundings sharpened and took shape. Standing before me with an angelic yet concerned look was a young woman dressed in the unmistakable green fatigues of an Army nurse.
"Well, hello there. We've been waiting for you to wake up—you did for a couple of minutes a few hours ago, but you fell back asleep before we could talk to you. Do you think you can sit up for us?"
I blinked and swiveled my head around to survey the room.
"Where's the rest of you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said we've been waiting…how many people are waiting? I hope I didn't keep them."
"Oh, well, we've all been waiting. Everyone on the ward," she gestured broadly. "The doctors, the nurses…we've all been eager to know your first words—and now we know—you're a comedian."
I was fading again. The effort of being witty and remaining conscious was too much for me. My mind flickered like a dying light bulb. Feebly, I raised my arm and, with a sad wave, said, "You're cute…" as my eyelids grew heavy and closed.
The nurse placed her hand on my forehead and said softly, "Don't you worry, darlin'. We'll be right here, waitin' for you to grace us with more of your witty repartee."
With my last reserves of will, I lifted my arm and rested my hand on hers. It was cool, like a brisk breeze across a snow-covered field. It felt good. I hoped I was smiling.
I drifted home to Shepard, Montana, and saw myself standing on the bank of Crooked Creek, as I had every spring since I was 7. The water was flowing again after being frozen since Christmas. I was eager to feel the tug on the line and set the hook on my first Yellowstone cutthroat trout of the season.
I took one step into the water, but before I could take another, I began to float into deeper water. Soon, I was up to my waist, shivering as the frigid water pressed against my waders—so cold it took my breath away. I reached back for my rod, but there was no rod. I looked down at the creek; it was no longer there. I looked up to the sky; it was fading to black. I felt warm. I was sinking into unknowing, unconscious comfort. But I was stuck—momentarily hovering between the two worlds, searching for something to hold on to. Before I surrendered and let go, my eyes fluttered open—just a slit. I was looking into the nurse's blue eyes… beautiful blue eyes… and, with a weak, fading smile, whispered, "You're cute." Then I was gone—returned to sweet oblivion.
When I awoke, it felt like morning. There was sunlight coming through the slat windows of the Quonset hut. Small, but significant things were different. I was hungry, and I had managed to sit up. Maybe I was through the worst of it. My mind was working again, enough to know that I had malaria. I was a medic after all. I turned and put my feet on the floor. Before I could attempt to stand, a nurse appeared from nowhere and yelped, "Don't… stay where you are."
"Don't stay where I am? Where should I go?" My sense of humor seemed to be intact.
She ignored my inane remark and commanded in a raspy, deep voice, "Lie back down. You're not ready to get out of bed." She wore captain's bars on her collar and smelled of cigarettes. Apparently, captains didn't have the kind of sense of humor that blue-eyed lieutenants did.
I hadn't been dreaming. I remembered. It was a fuzzy memory, but…
"Where is the other nurse?" I asked without thinking.
"There's only me, soldier."
"No, there was one here when I woke up the last time." I waited, but she ignored me and began to ease me back into bed. I weakly resisted, but it was a losing effort.
"The one with the blue eyes." I persisted.
"I don't know. If you woke up in the middle of the night, it would have been the night-duty nurse, and I’m afraid I have no idea what color her eyes might be. Would you like a bedpan?"
I drifted off.
"Would you like a bedpan, soldier… before I change your bandages?"
That snapped me back.
"What? What bandages?" As if on cue, I felt pain—burning pain in my leg. How could I have not noticed?
The captain looked at me with a dubious expression, reached under the bed, and brought up a bedpan.
"Here. Use this. I'll be back shortly to change your bandages." She waited with raised eyebrows until I nodded in acceptance. When she was satisfied, she turned on her heel and walked away briskly.
What happened to me—and what happened to the guys on my team after I was choppered out? I don't remember being hit. How could I not remember?
We were the point team of the recon platoon. We'd humped all day and were to rendezvous at daybreak with the other two teams, a quarter of a klick away. We'd set up for the night, and I woke up sick.
I don't really remember much after that. The call for dustoff must have been made to pick me up at first light.
God, why can't I remember what happened?
I wasn't getting anywhere when, as promised, the captain returned. While changing the bandages, she explained that I had been medevaced two nights earlier with raging malaria and a gunshot wound. She didn't know the details. I asked her about my team. She said she knew nothing; I'd been the only one on the Dustoff.
If I was hit, there must have been contact, maybe not a firefight, but some kind of contact… OK, so I got sick and lost it, and while I was being picked up, a firefight broke out? But what about my team? What happened to them? This is fucked up. I was supposed to be there to take care of them. If they got in the shit, and if any of them were hit, who the hell was there when they called for a medic? I'm fucking lying here, and they're out there… Oh, God, what the fuck is going on?
"Nurse, please, you gotta find out about my platoon. Please, can you ask someone if there are any others here in the hospital?"
She handed me my pajama bottoms and said, "I'll try, but like I said, you came in alone."
My mind raced from one possible scenario to another—none of them good.
"You came in alone."
Maybe it was a sniper, and my guys killed him… end of story. That would explain why no more casualties were brought in… that's why I'm here alone. That has to be it. They must be OK; otherwise they'd be here with me.
The day crept by with no news.
"No news is good news." That's fucking bullshit! Only good news is good news. No news makes every minute interminably anxious, filled with fear, regret, and guilt. Yes, guilt. I'm supposed to be with them, wherever they are. It's my job. I'm the "doc." They need me… and I need them.
From sheer exhaustion and worry, I must have succumbed, because when I woke, the windows were dark. I looked up and down the rows of beds, but I was still one of a handful of patients in the ward. I sat up, and this time, when I put my feet on the cement floor, no one told me to get back in bed. I didn't know which way the latrine was, but it had to be one of two directions. I had a 50-50 chance of getting it right. I walked toward the closer end of the quonset hut and stepped through a door. The latrine faced me. Lucky me.
When I returned to the ward after taking care of business in the latrine, I was met by a young Vietnamese orderly who took my arm and escorted me to my bunk. Behind him appeared a uniform perfectly filled by a nurse—a nurse with blue eyes. I hopped onto my bunk and looked up to see if she was impressed. The scowl on her face told me she wasn't. I didn't want to show it, but the excursion to the latrine had worn me out. I was breathing heavily, and every part of my body ached. Malaria is an extremely debilitating disease.
I know, because I'm a medic.
"You should have asked for a bedpan if you needed to relieve yourself. You are not ready to be roaming around on your own." She sounded more stern than she needed to be.
"I'm sorry, nurse…" I stared at her chest, but I couldn't read her name tape. Another symptom of malaria—blurred vision. She noticed my gaze, and I think she blushed. With my impaired vision, I can't be sure.
"I'm sorry, I can't make out your name," I clarified.
She looked down at her chest, then quickly turned to give the orderly instructions. When she turned back to me, her face wore the stern mask again.
"I need to change your bandages. You'll need to remove your pajamas."
With perfect timing, the orderly rolled up, pushing a table loaded with bandages, tape, scissors, and a variety of bottles and jars.
"The orderly will help with your pajamas," she said, then turned away. The orderly and I managed to pull them off, and he handed me a towel to cover myself.
My blue-eyed nurse turned back and carefully began removing the bandages that the day nurse had applied.
Funny, I don't remember the day nurse asking me to take off my pajamas.
I felt her cool fingers as she inadvertently touched my legs. She didn't look at me when she said, "Anna… Lt. Nyberg," she quickly added.
"You already know who I am… spec sergeant…"
"Yes, I know who you are… I mean, I know your name."
Something was wrong. The way she didn't say my name. She was hiding something.
The orderly helped me back on with my pajamas.
Anna sat down on the edge of my bed.
Yes, I call her Anna. In my head, anyway.
"The colonel is coming to see you shortly." She placed her hand on my shoulder and left it there. "And he's bringing the chaplain."
"What do you mean? Why… what's wrong? I'm getting better, aren't I?" I searched her eyes. She didn't blink.
"You're going to be fine," she said. "The colonel will be awarding you the Purple Heart."
"OK. What about the chaplain… what's he got to do with it? I don't need a chaplain. You said I'm going to be fine."
"I have a letter for you. It’s addressed to you. It was delivered this morning." Her face had changed. It was a face filled with pity. I didn't like it.
"A letter? They wouldn't deliver my mail here from base camp. What letter… who's it from?"
She handed me a dirty envelope with brown stains. It had my name on it. Not my military name and address, but the name my friends back home call me—printed across the envelope.
I stared at the envelope. I didn't want to open it, but I knew I had to. I couldn't catch my breath. I felt dizzy, and my heart pounded in my chest. I felt the blood rushing into my head—and it hit me. I was holding blood in my hands. Someone's blood had dried on the envelope. Someone I knew. Oh, God, NO! NO! I can't open this… I won't!
There was a commotion at the end of the ward. Deliberate, purposeful footsteps marched down the aisle. A full bird strode, with aides flanking him. They stopped at the foot of my bed. One aide handed the colonel a sheet of paper. The other stood at attention, holding a small black box in both hands like an offering. Lingering behind the officers was another officer with crosses on his collar—the chaplain.
Anna Nyberg, Lieutenant Nyberg, stood at my side, she kept her hand gently on my shoulder.
The colonel read, “This is to certify that the President of the United States of America has awarded the Purple Heart…”
When the colonel said my name, Anna squeezed my shoulder and stepped aside to make room for the colonel to pin the award to my pajamas.
I did my best imitation of a stoic soldier, but the image was marred by the tears streaming down my face. I nodded and tried to look appreciative as the three officers stood at attention and saluted me.
I was having an out-of-body experience.
This can't be happening. I must be dreaming or having another malaria delirium.
I felt Anna's presence. She was kneeling beside my bed, holding my hand. The letter was in my other hand. My tears kept coming. They weren't for me. They were for what I knew was coming. Tears of loss, tears of fear, tears for what has been and what will never be.
The chaplain waited patiently and pulled up two chairs. One for him and one for Anna.
I could not let go of her hand. If I let go, I would fly off the planet and be gone. The priest gave me the news.
As I was being loaded onto the Dustoff, there had been sniper fire. No big deal… I was the only one hit. Later, however, a large force hit my team. It was a savage fight, and my team made the NVA pay, but not without also paying the ultimate price—with their lives. The battle was so fierce that it gave the other two teams enough time to regroup and counterattack, but it was too late to save team A.
The priest recited a couple of prayers I didn't hear, then left the ward. Anna stayed.
Slowly, I gathered the shattered pieces of myself and opened the envelope. It read:
Brother,
Hopefully, you will never see this letter. If that is how it turns out, I will tell you about it over a beer back in the world, and we can laugh our asses off.
I had a dream, and I've had this terrible feeling—a premonition, I think it's called. I don't know if I'm gonna make it. You didn't wanna hear it when I tried to tell you, and I know how it sounds, but I can't make it stop. Anyway, I'm asking you to go see my wife and baby daughter. Tell them I love them. I'm sorry to lay this on you, but you're the only one who can do it. I'm grateful you're my friend, and if it happens… it probably won't, but if it does, I know you'll do it for me—you promised.
Chris
I did promise. I would have promised anything to shut him up. I thought he was just having a scared moment, like we all have.
Goddamn! Goddamn this fucking war.
I was the lucky one. I came down with malaria, and it saved my life… and all my friends were killed.
Ironic, isn't it?
And it's strange that I never thought about it… about dying, I mean. Not once. I'd been in some hairy situations before, and I never gave it a thought. It wasn't that I knew anything; the thought simply never crossed my mind.
At the worst moments, I always saw tomorrow—back at base camp, taking a cold shower, going through the chow line, at mail call, or just relaxing in the tent with the rest of the squad.
Nothing to write home about, but the sun would rise… and it would be tomorrow.
I know I could be killed over here…
But I don't think so.
I don't know why. It could be because I made a promise.
A promise I'm going to keep.
