Chapter Two

Vietnam Winter

(part three)

(end of chapter Two)

The helicopter glided high over the treetops. "All right. This is it," Dixon said. "Zone secure...so we hear. Let's go!"

"We're picking up two," Barton said. "We got a gook baby on the way and a male dink with acute appendicitis."

Josh could hear Dixon scowling over the intercom.

"Barton, you can cut the slang," he said. "Okay, we're goin' down."

From fifteen hundred feet Dixon floated the Huey down in looping spirals. He landed the chopper softly in a grass-blown clearing about sixty yards in diameter just outside the village.

"Go!" Dixon said to Josh and Alexander.

Four Marines rushed across the clearing pinching four corners of a blanket, carrying a woman wrapped in a quilt. One of the Marines shouted but the words drowned in the sound of the rotors and the helicopter's high-pitched engine whine. A Vietnamese man, crouched in spasms, followed closely behind. Josh and Al clutched the blanket and eased the woman on board. The man, lines of pain pulling his mouth down and stretching across his cheeks, clambered on behind them. Al reached down and helped pull the man in to a squatting position. "Clear," he said to Dixon. "Two on board."

Dixon gave the Huey full power, it rose twenty feet, tilted forward and they were off.

Josh got the man over to a litter, drew a half vial of morphine in a syringe and injected him. The chopper soared above the treetops and Al manned the M60.

"Lie down," Josh said. The man held his stomach. His face looked like a crying face but there were no tears. "Xin moi," Josh said. "Lie down." The man lay on the litter and began to relax.

"Headin' home," Dixon said over the intercom. "Fifteen hundred and cruising." Barton turned to a new frequency and hailed the Vietnamese hospital in Da Nang.

The young woman lay on the opposite litter holding her stomach, round and hard like an oversized, pumped up soccer ball. She lay calm, between contractions. Josh applied a wet cloth to her forehead and looked at his wristwatch. Josh remembered you can determine the stage of labor by tracking the strength and duration of the contraction and especially, the time between contractions. Closer to birth they come hard and fast.

He reached over and gently tugged at the woman's loose-fitting, wide-legged pajama pants, exposing her abdomen. He smiled at her placid face. "Speak English?"

"Un peu." Josh thought he detected French. "Parlez-vous Francais?" he said. She held up her thumb and forefinger slightly separated. "Un peu." She paused and pointed to her mouth."Toi khat," she said. "Wah-ter?"

The Huey rumbled toward Da Nang and Josh filled a cup with water, put his forearm under the woman's head, lifting her and pressing the paper cup to her lips. An instant later the woman's head jerked forward knocking the cup from Josh's hand. He looked at his watch.

"Toi bi da day! Mauvais!" The woman bent in pain, clutching low on her exposed abdomen. "Hurt! Hurt! Oh, hurt!" Josh looked at his watch and pellets of sweat broke out over his eyebrows. He wiped them away with one hand and concentrated on the second hand rounding the dial. Forty-five seconds later, the contraction ended and the woman eased on the litter.

Josh talked to himself. She's carrying this baby low. Tommy always said if you carry a baby low throughout your term that it would most certainly be a boy. High for a girl, low for a boy. Must be a boy. Sure, jackass, this baby could have been high yesterday. It's dropped now and it's ready to come out. So you better be ready to catch it.

In a matter of seconds a new contraction came and it lasted a full minute. Al, restless at his post over the M60, looked over and said, "Anything I can do?" Josh shook his head, lifting the woman's tunic top and pulling the black pajama pants down to her ankles. Her swelled belly trembled and the time between contractions shortened. "You can check out our friend here," Josh said, pointing to the man lying quiet, staring at the litter above his head. "But I think he's doing okay."

The woman's contractions measured one minute to one-minute-ten; time between, about twenty-five seconds and quickening. Josh thought about giving her a little morphine but thought better of it. The radio traffic raced through his helmet as the chopper neared Da Nang.

Dixon squawked over the radio. "Listen, I hear ya back there so we're goin' straight in to G4, the Navy hospital at Marble Mountain. It's closer. All right?"

"Yeah," Josh said. "Thanks."

Barton spoke up. "That's against orders, sir. The locals expect us in Da Nang."

"Shut up, Barton," Dixon said. "Get in touch with G4 and let 'em know."

"Yes sir."

Free counters provided by Andale.

Buckled over, the man with appendicitis crawled out to the waiting stretcher. Next came Duc Su and the baby.

"Need to take care of that cord," a doctor said to the nurse. "Get the instruments ready." The nurse pulled a sheet around Duc Su and wrapped the baby in a separate one. The two gurneys rolled across the tarmac to the waiting entrance of the hospital, a double-door opening girdled in sandbags.

Dixon turned in his seat, grinning. "Hey, Bailey. What happened back there?"

Josh sank against the wall of the Huey. Alexander wet a cloth and tossed it to him along with a clean towel.

"Did you learn anything?" Dixon asked. Josh sighed.

"Yeah. I think so."

"Good. Learning's good." Dixon chuckled. "Stay tuned and you'll get to learn some more. We got a call up north near another river, the Perfume. I ain't sure, but it smells like trouble." Dixon turned to the copilot. "You ready, Barton?"

"Yes sir."

"All right. Hang on, boys. We're on our way. Barton, check that frequency again."

Al slapped Josh on the shoulder. "Not bad, mate. Not bad."

Josh wiped his face and raised his eyes skyward. Above his head the blades of the Huey chopped the air. He shifted his gaze to the Alaskan. "Like you say, man, get it done with a little luck—blades up and wheels down."

Al winked at him and turned back to his M60.

Over a long watch and many hours the medevac crew encountered more than a dozen wounded Marines by nightfall, two's and three's at a time. Their jaunts from Da Nang took them far west over mountains and forests of rosewood and ebony and once again down to the My Son Valley and south still, past Que Son. The amazing thing was, none of the pickups involved body bags; not one flight bore severed limbs wrapped in bloody tourniquets, not a single transported Marine had a terminal glaze in his eyes. Alexander, Bailey and Dixon flew six dustoffs in a row without getting fired at.

On the seventh, their last of the day, Josh thought their luck had run out.

High over a cloudy pass and Highway 1 a convoy rounding a bend met an NVA rocket attack from the hills above. Bloodied corpses hung over the sides of the personnel carriers and assorted body parts lay in the road. Field medics hoisting IV bottles waded among the wounded trying to make whole the shattered company of Marines. Coming in waves, one chopper after another, the worst of the wounded were being evacuated.

Maintaining altitude, out of rocket range, Dixon circled the curling highway. The radio sent a clear message about how bad things were on the ground. Hammered by sorties of F4s and artillery, the enemy had finally retreated beyond a ridge. Dixon tilted the collective down and dropped the Huey in a free fall dive to the highway. NVA tracers streamed from the hillside forest chasing the helicopter's descent. One pattern ripped through the side, metal plinking against metal, above Josh's head. Another round ricocheted below, off the skids and thudding into the underbelly of the machine, stabbing pockmarks in the red paint of the red cross emblem. Josh heard the whiz of the bullets and felt the impact but somehow no bullets and no shrapnel made it though the foil-thin decking of the Huey. Across the deck, Al fired the M60 in long, steady bursts.

Dixon got the chopper down in a hurry and the field medics were fast and efficient loading the poncho-wrapped Marines. There were torn limbs, chest wounds and puddles of blood but no lost causes. The medics in the field had already sorted the dead and dying so Josh's crew only got the best of what was left. He and Al got busy filling syringes, checking tourniquets and following up on the good work of the field medics.

After warning everyone aboard to buckle up, Dixon performed a special skim and swerve treetop maneuver and the tracers from the hillside trees lagged against the late afternoon sun. They landed in Da Nang at the Naval Support Activity Hospital and watched the wounded being wheeled away, within minutes of the operating room and some of the most experienced medical personnel in Vietnam.

"Let's call it a day," Dixon said, and he pointed the nose of the chopper with its red cross outlined in white south toward Marble Mountain. Al started cleaning his machine gun and checking the ammunition reserves. As crew chief, he had at least an hour of maintenance duty ahead of him after they reached the airfield. Josh moved, adjusted his flak jacket, slumped against the vibrating hatch of the Huey and looked out. He reached above the door and felt the jagged edges of a bullet hole. By now, back at G4, with any luck Duc Su would be in a hospital bed nursing her newborn. All told, start to finish, seven successful missions today and only one taking fire. A very good run of luck.

Flying high with an unspoiled view of the lush countryside, Josh felt tired but he knew in another hour the real fatigue would weigh in and take over. Until then he could think about luck and how different everything might look without it.

END of Chapter Two

GO to 1964
(Chapter 3 of Tamarind Tree,
the novel continues)

Back to Vietnam Winter
(Chapter 2/part two)

Back to 1963
(Chapter 1/part one)

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Between contractions Josh wiped the young woman's brow. "Cam on," she said. "Merci." Her face said "thank you." Another contraction and another and another. Contraction, one-minute-twenty. Interval, fifteen seconds.

Josh pressed the cool cloth to her forehead. He looked at her dark eyes resting from the labor. "Name?" he said. He tried to remember the phrase in French. "Appelez-vous?" Then he remembered the Vietnamese phrase they had learned at Camp Lejeune, "Ten ong la gi?"

"Duck Sue," she said, grimacing under another contraction. It was probably Duc Su. But it sounds like Duck Sue. Dixon made a wide turn heading due north and the litter swayed under her. "Six-Seven minutes to the field," Dixon crackled in Josh's helmet."Duc Su, this baby, is this baby your first?"

Josh pointed to her stomach and made a rocking cradle with his hands. "Les enfant. Premier enfant? Ou deuxiéme enfant?" He held a single finger in front of her face.

Duc Su's face contorted. "Troisiéme!" she shouted. "Troisiéme!" She held up three fingers and clinched the sides of the litter.

"Shit!" Josh said. "Third baby and fast contractions. We have to get this bird on the ground." The next contraction, one-and-a-half minutes, brought Duc Su to a sitting position.

Frantically, Josh rounded his lips, took a deep breath and blew. He couldn't think of the French. He clasped her wrist. "Blow, Duc Su. Breathe and blow, like at a candle. But easy. Keep the flame lit." He couldn't think of the French for flame or candle or blow. "Lumiére," Josh said. "Breathe gently at the flame." The contraction lasted almost two minutes and ten seconds later a new one began.

"Three minutes," Barton announced. Al crouched beside the litter holding the woman's ankles. Josh's knees quaked. Unbalanced, he leaned over, adjusted his position, mopped her face and demonstrated the breathing technique.

Jesus, just a couple more minutes to help. Please, lady, please, please wait for the help. I'm begging you. I cannot do this.

Duc Su tried to imitate Josh's breathing but her face twisted in pain and she reached down and pushed on her stomach, spreading her legs.

"Pousser!" she cried. "Je pousser! Je Pousser!"

"No! No!" Josh moved his hands to her legs, to the underside of her arched knees. "Non! Non, s'il vous plait. Don't push! Please! Arreter!"

"Pousser! Pousser!"

"No. Please. Stop!" Josh looked down, between Du Su's legs, and incredibly, saw the top of the baby's head presenting itself. The visible portion looked about the size of a silver dollar.

"Goin' down," Dixon said. Duc Su rose up, pressing her hands against the frame of the litter. The baby's head slipped down and then back. It came again the size of a baseball, then slipped back. "Oh, oh, oh!" Duc Su gripped the sides of the litter.

"Holy shit!" Josh said, moving his hands under her. He knelt there with his palms open, waiting, ready and tense, a nervous shortstop catching a grounder in Little League.

The baby's head presented itself again, bigger and wider now, more like half a softball planted in the middle of a catcher's mitt. Then it retreated, briefly.

"Oh, man," Al said.

"Touching down," said Dixon.

Too late, Josh thought. Duc Su arched higher, pushing. "Oh, oh! Oh-Oh-Oh!" The back of the baby's head presented itself full and round. Duc Su pushed again, one shoulder came, then the next, and the baby came in a flood, dropping into Josh's hands, umbilical cord trailing.

"Oui! Oui!" said Duc Su.

"Yes, madame, yes," Josh said, looking down, turning the baby and cradling it. "It's a boy." He held the baby in his hands and forearms and the baby started crying. He cuddled the baby, red and squalling, and looked again at Duc Su. "It's a boy." He tilted the baby toward her. "A boy. Votre fils."

Duc Su smiled tiredly, her face sweat-streaked. "Merci, médicin, merci." Josh thought, no, no doctor here. Just a scared medic.

"Votre fils c'est beau," Josh said. Duc Su nodded and smiled.

Behind him a gurney clanked under the hatch of the chopper. Josh turned toward the doorway and saw two sets of medical teams, a business-like party of doctors, nurses and stretcher bearers looking in.

The engine whined and the rotors beat softly and two sets of hands reached over for the young mother and her baby. The nurse looked at Josh. The tag above her breast said Lieutenant Angel.

"It's okay, corpsman. We'll take over, now. Good job."