James Spaulding

     … the 122 mm rockets that slammed into their compound the day before signaled the beginning of an offensive by heavily armed elements of the NVA’s crack 128th regiment, now within three miles of the base camp perimeter. To repel the attack six companies from 23d Division’s  196th and 198th Light Infantry Brigades met the threat, along with gunships from the 132 Aviation Co. During the course of the afternoon and well into the evening artillery hammered the nearby hills while enemy heavy mortars whistled as they walked into the LZ’s ringing the  lowlands. At the height of the horrific carnage firefights were breaking out along the perimeter that ran the length of the Marine base camp and flight line. 

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      For the half dozen personnel sitting under the butte of the 312th Evacuation Hospital getting high, the whoop and whine of helicopters under full military power hovering 70 feet over their heads, waiting to transfer dead, wounded Americans before arcing away in a fit, the unfolding drama instilled tremendous guilt.

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     The long day ahead meant morning reports painting a graphic picture of who died and who might wish they had as records from their 201 files contained an inch square photo and description of what maimed or  killed them. For Paxton, high and furious beyond reason, tonight’s slaughter would be the catalyst that would draw him from the circle and up the steep path to the Quonset huts that housed the reality of what he need only process on paper. 

 

     Paxton walked against the wash from a ‘slick’ lifting off, followed three pairs of stretcher bearers who double timed into the long maw of  the 312th’s tunnel. When he came to swinging door of OR 2 Paxton stopped and looked through the Plexiglas window, his eyes coming to  rest on medics cutting off filthy, blood soaked utilities of someone quite unconscious and missing part of his left arm.

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     He walked in, approached a portable gurney heavily smeared with blood and locked eyes with first Lieutenant Lane who looked up from under a blue mask, eyes hard as flint. In a strained guttural, raised to counter agonized moans echoing in the din, she asked. “Who are you? Do you know this man?

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     Paxton could only shake his head ‘no’. 

     “Then, get the fuck out of my OR asshole before I have you court  martialed…”