The President's Doctor

by David Shobin

  Then the men were rushing outside through the rear ramp, M-16s at the ready.

  The next thing Jon knew, someone had seized his arm and propelled him forward. It was Captain Meredith.

  “Let’s go, Doc. Stick with me!”

  Jon followed blindly. Running behind the captain, he charged out of the helicopter into the rotor wash and onto the flattened grass. Nearby, the platoon’s second helicopter was coming in for a landing. All at once, they were struck by the rain. Instead of advancing slowly, the storm came on like a descending curtain, a sudden wall of hammering water. Enormous raindrops pelted them like hail. The rotor-whipped deluge made a thunderous sound as it splattered their helmets and splashed through the grass.

  Within seconds, visibility was nonexistent. The men hunkered down, open and vulnerable, not sure what to do. The sergeant rushed up.

  “The tree line, captain?”

  “Right. On the double.”

  “All right, let’s go, di di mau!” the sergeant shouted to the men. “Form up and follow me!”

  Within seconds, Jon was once more running in Captain Meredith’s footsteps. Beneath the grass, the soft earth was quickly turning to mud. Jon’s boots made huge splashes where his pounding feet struck the ground. He couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him. Heart in his mouth, Jon followed the other men toward the forest refuge, terrified that they’d be hit by gunfire at any minute.

  But they reached the woods unscathed. The men huddled together in small groups behind tree trunks, weapons up and ready. Diverted by the foliage overhead, the rain seemed to lessen. Frightened and soaked, Jon didn’t know what to do.

  “Should I put on my poncho?” he asked the man beside him.

  “Fuck that. It’ll clear up soon.”

  As predicted, the rain stopped within minutes. The storm departed as fast as it arrived, sweeping east over the lowlands toward the South China Sea. Jon counted the men around him and reckoned the entire platoon was present. A mile away, the departing choppers became disappearing specks.

  The patrol’s destination was an infiltration trail halfway up the mountain. Intelligence said the enemy was there, and it was 1st platoon’s job to intercept and destroy them. Soon the men split up into squads and cautiously advanced up the hillside.

  The change in weather was abrupt. Within minutes the storm was gone as quickly as it had struck, and bright morning light filtered through the jungle canopy. Hidden forest creatures began to trill. Where the light touched damp foliage, the sunbeams created clouds of steamy vapor. Within minutes the jungle air became sweltering. Here and there, the rays of sun penetrating the overhead boughs shined like spotlights on the emerald objects below.

  Jon was in the captain’s squad, along with six other Marines. The point man, a corporal, led the way, with Meredith second, and Jon behind him. They moved slowly, cautiously. The trail was only a fifteen-degree incline, but the sudden heat, and the weight of what he was carrying, made Jon sweat profusely. The field pack on his shoulders weighed twenty-five pounds.

  To provide treatment, Fleet Marine Force Field Medical Service Corpsmen relied on a rucksack of supplies called a “Unit One,” officially termed the Surgical Instrument and Supply Set. It contained combat dressings and bandages of various sizes, a suture set, scissors, airways, intracaths, syringes, and a gas mask bag. Diagnostic equipment was limited to a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, and a flashlight. The corpsman’s primary mission was to render emergency first aid: hit ’em with volume, patch ’em, give them morphine, and prepare them for medevac.

  To that end, the corpsman usually carried several containers of IV solutions, IV tubing, auto-injectable morphine, and epinephrine. There were also oral drugs—vials of Darvon, Benadryl, Compazine, injectable penicillin, and penicillin and erythromycin in tablet form. In addition, Jon’s pack contained two pounds of C-4 explosive, a few poncho liners, personal items like extra socks, and a five-pound spare radio battery.

  As if that weight were not enough, he also carried his personal weapon, several knives, and two bandoleers of twenty-round M-16 magazines. Other corpsmen carried .45s as side arms, but Jon thought that was overdoing it. As it was, he doubted he’d ever use his weapon. He knew how, but that wasn’t why he joined the Marines.

  Fortunately, he was in good shape. He was five-eleven and one hundred seventy- five pounds, and he’d always been athletic. After the squad advanced a hundred yards, his breath came easier. Walking more comfortably, he slowly took in his surroundings. He’d been told these mountains were typical Southeast Asian rainforest, something the density and dampness attested to. He recognized pine, ferns, and immense thickets of bamboo. There were numerous species of tropical broadleaf trees, but the most striking feature was the vines—curled, gnarled masses that attached to everything.

  Leaves dripped all over. And coming from everywhere were the audible cries, shrieks, and whoops of forest creatures, a cacophony of mammal, bird, and insect. There was an occasional screech, followed by a frantic, maniacal chattering, interrupted by the riffling of branch and bough. The most noticeable sound, coming from on high, was the incessant, high-pitched frenzy of insects at work, a noise reminiscent of locust, or cicada.

  For Jon, the sensory stimulation by sight and sound was both overwhelming and otherworldly. There was madness here, but also great beauty. At any other time, he might have thought he was in a magical place, but now his overriding emotion was fear. He tread lightly, and his palms were so damp they felt oily. His eyes darted about as he nervously scanned the trail. Suddenly, he saw two eyes staring at him from the middle of a tree trunk. He was terrified.

  “Holy shit,” he mumbled.

  Meredith whirled, bringing his rifle to bear. He squinted at what Jon was looking at. Then he lowered his M-16’s barrel and approached the tree. “Come here, Doc.”

  Jon ambled closer, never taking his eyes off of what was staring at him. Soon, he saw that they weren’t eyes at all. “Is that a butterfly?”

  “Yes, it is,” Meredith said softly. “Looks human, from a distance. Those blobs are a defense mechanism. They’re called pseudo-eyes.”

  On the tips of the lower wings were quarter-size, orange globules that resembled perfect irises. In their centers were elliptical ebony slits, like the irises of a cat. The overall impression was that of a dangerous feline, but it was offset by the beautiful wings above them—chocolate brown in color, with delicate turquoise streaking.

  “That’s amazing,” Jon said. “I never would’ve guessed.”

  “Keep your voice down, son. There are lots of beautiful things in this hell hole.” He turned and looked overhead, pointing up at the jungle canopy.

  Jon gazed up at the curious creatures forty feet away. “Wow, are those monkeys?”

  “Macaques. They’re all over the place. Also, rhesus monkeys, langurs, and a dozen other species I can’t identify. But look, Doc. I know this is your first patrol, but we have a job to do here, and there’s not much time for sightseeing. You’ll pick up on that, in time. So, look sharp and keep your eyes peeled for bad guys, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The patrol resumed. There came the metallic snick of safeties being thumbed from safe to fire. Spaced five yards apart, the men moved cautiously but steadily and were soon five hundred yards up the mountainside. There was no sign of the enemy. This was fine with Jon, who pointed his M-16 down at a forty-five-degree angle, with his right index finger outside the trigger guard. His initial terror had lessened to a state of continuous anxiety. As he walked, he had to concentrate on keeping the damp vines off him. He was truly a stranger in a strange land, bewildered, frightened, and yet fascinated.

  The squad moved on. Suddenly the corporal stopped and raised his hand. The men halted, and everyone took a knee. The air grew tense, and Jon held his breath. Then the man on point signaled for them to stay put while he went ahead, approaching something in the bush. Soon, he waved the squad forward.

  Following the captai
n, Jon came up behind the point man, who gestured toward a nearby tree. Turning in that direction, Jon immediately noticed the snake. The wriggling reptile was five feet long and hung by its tail from a tree branch. It vaguely resembled a rattler, but Jon thought it far more beautiful, with evenly-spaced brown bands around a white body. It writhed because it was in the process of devouring something.

  Protruding from the snake’s jaws were a green torso attached to a pair of legs. At first, Jon thought it was a frog. The legs jerked spasmodically as it struggled to free itself. But its head and forelegs were well inside the snake’s gullet, and there was no escape. Every few seconds the snake would twist as it widened its jaws for another swallow. Branch, snake, and prey swayed together in a macabre ballet of death. Captain Meredith spoke in a whisper.

  “Bamboo snake,” he told Townsend. “Probably his breakfast.”

  “It that a frog?”

  “No, a green gecko. That snake loves lizards. They’re all part of the master food chain.” Nodding toward the point man, Meredith signaled the squad to resume patrol. The men silently paraded past the reptilian struggle.

  The trail narrowed, walled in by dense hanging vines. A little further up, the corporal again signaled a halt, this time more urgently. Once more, the squad took a knee. The point man slowly crawled ahead in a tight crouch, eyes on something around the trail’s bend. He pointed at the captain and waved him up alone. Jon’s pounding heart wanted to erupt from his chest. Not wanting to leave his commander, he followed at a safe distance.

  The two men up front communicated by hand signals. Jon gathered that the corporal might have spotted the enemy and wanted to know how to proceed. Meredith indicated that the two of them would check it out, with the rest of the men staying put until indicated. Signaling his intentions to the men in the rear, Meredith inched ahead.

  Corporal and captain moved stealthily toward the trail bend, M-16s at the ready. Overhead, the relentless insect chatter continued, oblivious to the movement below. Jon’s eyes bulged as he watched them advance. He wasn’t ready for this. Deep down, he hoped the point man was mistaken, that his eyes were playing tricks on him. Beads of sweat rolled down Jon’s cheeks. Well trained though he was, he felt emotionally unequipped for combat. Perhaps he might be, after a few more patrols. But now….

  All of a sudden, the corporal straightened up and charged ahead, firing a deafening burst from his weapon. Jon’s jaw dropped, completely unprepared for what he was seeing. The captain immediately followed, rounding the bend. Jon’s heart was in his throat. Behind him, the rest of the squad rushed forward for support. But they’d just begun to move when the air was ripped by an ear-splitting explosion that shook the ground.

  What happened after that seemed to occur in slow motion. The next thing Jon knew, Captain Meredith was flying backward like a rag doll. His spine struck a massive pine, and then his torso slumped over, supported by a bamboo thicket. For some reason, the thing Jon noticed most was the abrupt cessation of insect noise.

  “Corpsman!” someone shouted. “Corpsman up!”

  Suddenly energized, Jon leapt ahead, oblivious to danger. His hollow legs felt brittle, but he had to reach the captain. His gaze never left Captain Meredith, who appeared unconscious. His senseless body tilted into the bamboo at a peculiar angle. Jon spotted a widening bloodstain on the front of the captain’s shirt. Reaching his CO, Jon tugged off Meredith’s rucksack and web gear and dropped them on the ground.

  “Captain!” he said. “Can you hear me, Captain Meredith?”

  Meredith didn’t reply. His eyes were narrowed to slits, and he was clearly stunned into unconsciousness, or worse. The blood was a problem that needed immediate attention. Jon tried to ease the captain to jungle floor. Yet when he touched the captain’s shoulder, Meredith’s weight shifted. He leaned heavily into the bamboo, which started to give way.

  Looking at the spot the captain was going to fall, something caught Jon’s eye. A strand of what looked like horizontal fishing line was stretched taut, a foot off the ground. Jon’s eyes widened in horror. He instantly recognized it as the trip wire for a booby trap. If the captain’s toppling continued, they’d both be blown to bits. Jon lunged and grabbed Meredith from behind.

  Dazed and glassy-eyed, Meredith saw everything in a blur. His ears were ringing, and green forest foliage danced before him. He felt arms encircling him—strong, steady arms, pulling him up and away. Then they pulled him free from the bamboo and laid him back down on the trail.

  The voices up ahead were shrill.

  “Oh Jesus, Jesus,” one said.

  “Fuckin’ booby trap,” said another. “Blew the shit out of him.”

  And then a sound like bees zinged through the air, followed by the distinctive crack of AK-47s.

  “We’re taking fire!” someone shouted. “Fall back!”

  The men retreated into defensive positions. Almost immediately, the ambush gunfire ceased. Jon grabbed Meredith under the armpits and dragged him to the rear. Another man retrieved their packs. The defensive perimeter stabilized enough for them to tend to the wounded. Jon quickly knelt beside the captain and ripped open his blouse. Meredith blinked his eyes, struggling to focus.

  “Take it easy, captain,” Jon said. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Meredith’s upper abdomen was soaked in blood. Just beneath the left rib cage, a tiny puncture oozed briskly. Jon retrieved a large field dressing from his pack and ripped open its wrapper. Though labeled camouflage, the dressing was pink. He pressed it firmly to the wound to stanch the flow of blood. Several Marines looked on.

  “Did he take a round, Doc?” one asked.

  “Something hit him, but I don’t know if it’s a bullet. Looks more like shrapnel. Give me a hand and press on this.”

  They switched places. Jon removed a two-hundred-fifty cc container of albumin from his aid kit and attached IV tubing. After draining the infusion through the tubing, he rolled up the captain’s sleeve and wrapped a latex tourniquet around the biceps. Opening an intracath, he found a vein, plunged the catheter home, and attached the IV tubing.

  Once he adjusted the flow, Jon looked up and found Meredith watching him.

  “Don’t worry, sir, they radioed for a dust-off. We’ll have you out of here pronto.”

  Just then, the marine helping him with the dressing shouted incomprehensibly and reached for his rifle. But before he could level it, Jon was nearly deafened by a sudden burst of AK-47 fire. His face was stung by muzzle blast, and as he reflexively averted his head, he saw the marine go down with a shoulder wound. Turning back, Jon’s eyes went wide at the sight of a black-pyjamaed Viet Cong rising from the bush two meters away.

  In that instant, Jon was certain he was dead. His entire life had come down to this, and he felt utterly helpless. Events once again moved with infinite slowness. He felt peculiarly paralyzed as he reached for the M-16 the wounded marine had dropped at Jon’s feet. His hand closed around its black stock just as the VC raised his AK and fired toward Jon’s midsection.

  The searing pain in his left hip coincided with another deafening roar. Jon looked in his enemy’s dark eyes, and the man stared back at him. Then the AK’s muzzle rose to Jon’s chest. He watched with a strangely detached curiosity as the VC’s finger tightened on the trigger. But nothing happened. Both soldiers looked down at the rifle. A shell casing was stuck in the ejection port, and the weapon was jammed.

  “Shoot him!” shouted Meredith, now awake. “For Christ sake, shoot him!”

  As Jon leveled his M-16, the black-clad enemy looked up, his eyes gone round with terror. Jon’s finger slipped past the trigger guard. But for some reason, he hesitated.

  He was in a kill or be killed situation, preparing to take the life of a man who’d just shot him—yet he could not.

  A second later, a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the men behind him. Jon heard the whizzing rounds zing past. The impact of a dozen rounds on the enemy’s chest was ferocious. The VC’s head snapped b
ack, and he collapsed in a lifeless heap. Then the shooters rushed over, kicking the man to make sure he was dead.

  Rifles at their shoulders, the rest of the squad gathered round, forming a protective semicircle for aid and cover. Jon snapped out of the doldrums and knelt beside the wounded marine. The 7.62-millimeter bullet had struck him just above the clavicle and torn through the upper border of his trapezius muscle. Although the grunt was moaning, it wasn’t a life-threatening injury. In less than a minute, Jon had him patched and injected with morphine.

  “Bird’s up,” called the radioman. “They’ll be at the LZ in ten minutes.”

  By this time, the sergeant in the squad nearest Jon’s arrived and assumed charge. Whatever enemy there was seemed to have melted away. Four men not providing cover made a litter from a poncho liner and lifted Meredith onto it. Although pale, Meredith was now fully alert. He and the sergeant discussed the withdrawal.

  “They’re also sending a gunship, Sarge,” the radioman said. “I told ’em we’re in deep serious, and they want us down the hill, hotel alpha.”

  “All right, move out!” the sergeant called. “My squad’s on the drag while you guys get down there with the wounded.”

  Holding the four ends of the poncho liner, the men lifted Meredith up. He glanced at the other wounded man, then at Townsend.

  “How’s he doing, Doc?”

  “A clean hole in the muscle, he’ll be okay. He can hump it down the hill. It’ll be a few minutes before the morphine turns him stupid.”

  Meredith looked at Jon’s hip. “Looks like you got dinged yourself.”

  In the frenzied aftermath of battle, Jon had forgotten his own wound. The momentary flash of pain was gone, and now it was numb. Looking below his left hip, a large crimson stain moistened his fatigues down to the middle of his thigh. Using one of his knives, he made a slit in the fatigues. The .30 caliber bullet had gouged an inch-deep crease on the outside of his quadriceps, barely missing bone.

  “Jesus, will you look at that. I can hardly feel it.” He took a heavy pad from his pack and pressed it to the wound.