Judy Hamilton
25th July 2008, 08:34 PM (20:34)
this is a completed chapter in the book I am writing about the years I was an Army nurse...i feel like celebrating!!
Will You Whistle Dixie
As part of the 91st Evac, I have earned my pay today, as it has been a busy twelve hours caring for two sixty bed wards of patients one ward is for Vietnamese Army casualties, (with a few wounded civilians sprinkled in the mix) the other ward is filled with American combat casualties. A “push” is when casualties are delivered to the hospital in large numbers. Today, an influx of Infantry from the 101st ABN and the 173rd qualifies as a push. With, some of them still in surgery and the wounds of the others examined and dressed, after realizing everyone in their respective platoons survived, the two units relax and unwind with a bit of feisty bantering, generic among Paratroopers. I grin inside; glad their spunk survived the firefights, as with the massive wounds, most of them received they will need a large “hunk-of-spunk” to fully recover.
I left the wards late tonight, but the wards did not leave me.
With my face turned skyward, in case God is listening I said "God…I need to get away from their faces and injuries and just forget, everything, if only for a few minutes." As God and I have not been talking of late, I am shocked to hear his name slip past my tongue. I consider my options, it is too late to hang out with flyguy friends at the airbase, and besides Rock is gone and I need space…to recover from him…from us, or better put, the "absence of us" I drop by the hooch to change out of my soldier clothes. The nurses hooches are situated a stone throw from the beach. I muse; I have always wanted a place on the beach, what well balanced sixties person wouldn’t? Perhaps a short walk on the beach, relaxing with the rhythm of the waves pounding against the shore, will drain tension that has been building all day. A dark moonless night understands and accentuates the depression trying to envelope my being.
A distant floodlight throws long shadows over thick tangled rolls of wicked concertina wire separating the nurses’ hooch from the beach, creating eerie netherworld forms on the sand. Without a flashlight I can barely make out the frame of the guard post overlooking the fishing village next to our perimeter.
Walking directly to the guard tower, I holler out with a clear diction, "Soldier! I am a friendly, can you see me OK?’
"Yes, I see you alright, but this area is off limits at night. Oh! It’s you Lt. Not to worry, are you bringing us some popcorn and sodas? Or are you here to trim my hair?" he replied with a tease.
"Sorry, I am not bearing gifts," I said, “I want to request a favor," chiding myself, why didn’t I pop some corn and bring it with me?
Over the past months I have brought snacks out them, as they stand guard protecting our perimeter at night. Our corpsmen, the lowest in pecking order, in true military fashion are crossed trained; they serve during the day on the wards and rotate perimeter guard duty at night. Not fair from my opinion of military life.
One of five guys, chosen by the Sgt. has the privilege of sleeping all night. The lucky soldier is the “super-nummerary-of-the-guard.” Qualifying for this coveted position depends entirely on the favor of the Sgt. This is when nurses morph into “moms” for our post- teen soldiers. The medics value our attention and just before inspection drop by the ward, for the nurses’ inspection. I do my best to help them 'look good' for the real-deal. I run my hand over a the face of a grinning soldier, trying to detect stubble from a shaved soft peach fuss and ask,
“Did you just shave?”
“Adjust your collar so I can get a closer look at your hair”
I ceremoniously pull out my bandage scissors and become a fearsome barber, snipping stray hairs escaping down the back of the soldiers’ neck. Lastly, I talk to my medic about current events;
"Tell me what's happening back in The World,” I ask, knowing he will endure relentless quizzing from the Sgt; a man known as a grim taskmaster. This selection routine takes place each evening, an approach used to instill a bit of military bearing on young soldiers.
“No, I didn’t come to hang out” I reply to his question, “I just want to ask if I can walk on the beach.”
“Yes Ma'am, it’s OK by me, I will pass on to the guy doing duty with me where you are. Right now he’s sleeping on the beach, we’re gonna switch places in a few minutes.”
With permission granted, I meander down the beach far enough to get away from the glare of floodlights and strands of music from the O’Club; a poor rendition of the lines to Jim Croce’s song:
He's bad, bad Leroy Brown
baddest man in the whole **** town
Badder than old King Kong
Meaner than a junkyard dog
I slip out of my flip-flops and walk in the surf, close my eyes and try to pretend I am on the other side of the world. I visualize myself walking on a beach in the warm Gulf waters near Corpus Christi, Texas where my parents live. I walk and walk and walk, trying to distance myself from today, from yesterday and from tomorrow. I try to picture that the water, pounding on this war torn Asian shore, is part of the same great ocean that connects continents and these same waves will ultimately wash to the shores of lovely Carmel and Big Sur and to peace, sweet peace; where men, women and children and old men and old women are not destroyed with the toss of a grenade or burned to a crisp in the wake of a burst of napalm dropped out of a clear blue sky. A junkyard dog fares better than humanity in this ragged edge of the word.
Exhaustion slips into my bones, I need to get back to my hooch. Turning around I walk toward the guard shack and my flip-flops. By now the guards have switched places, however unknown to me, my friend failed tell the next guard that I am on the beach. In the dim-lit moonless sky, I barely make out the sleeping form of a large man, presumably a guard, resting in the sand near my flip-flops. I walk closer and closer toward the soldier when I heard a sharp metallic snick, the unmistakable sound of an M-16 being primed…my God…he is going to shoot me! I flatten myself on the sand screaming. ”Don’t shoot! I am American!”
Silence hangs in the air as I plaster myself closer to mother earth …finally; a voice heaves a loud sigh of palatable relief. In a slow deep southern drawl the voice breaks the silence with a line I will not soon forget,
“Will-you-just-whistle-Dixie?”
Tasting my sweat while spitting sand, I pucker my lips and whistle, “O, I wish I was in the land of cotton.”
Will You Whistle Dixie
As part of the 91st Evac, I have earned my pay today, as it has been a busy twelve hours caring for two sixty bed wards of patients one ward is for Vietnamese Army casualties, (with a few wounded civilians sprinkled in the mix) the other ward is filled with American combat casualties. A “push” is when casualties are delivered to the hospital in large numbers. Today, an influx of Infantry from the 101st ABN and the 173rd qualifies as a push. With, some of them still in surgery and the wounds of the others examined and dressed, after realizing everyone in their respective platoons survived, the two units relax and unwind with a bit of feisty bantering, generic among Paratroopers. I grin inside; glad their spunk survived the firefights, as with the massive wounds, most of them received they will need a large “hunk-of-spunk” to fully recover.
I left the wards late tonight, but the wards did not leave me.
With my face turned skyward, in case God is listening I said "God…I need to get away from their faces and injuries and just forget, everything, if only for a few minutes." As God and I have not been talking of late, I am shocked to hear his name slip past my tongue. I consider my options, it is too late to hang out with flyguy friends at the airbase, and besides Rock is gone and I need space…to recover from him…from us, or better put, the "absence of us" I drop by the hooch to change out of my soldier clothes. The nurses hooches are situated a stone throw from the beach. I muse; I have always wanted a place on the beach, what well balanced sixties person wouldn’t? Perhaps a short walk on the beach, relaxing with the rhythm of the waves pounding against the shore, will drain tension that has been building all day. A dark moonless night understands and accentuates the depression trying to envelope my being.
A distant floodlight throws long shadows over thick tangled rolls of wicked concertina wire separating the nurses’ hooch from the beach, creating eerie netherworld forms on the sand. Without a flashlight I can barely make out the frame of the guard post overlooking the fishing village next to our perimeter.
Walking directly to the guard tower, I holler out with a clear diction, "Soldier! I am a friendly, can you see me OK?’
"Yes, I see you alright, but this area is off limits at night. Oh! It’s you Lt. Not to worry, are you bringing us some popcorn and sodas? Or are you here to trim my hair?" he replied with a tease.
"Sorry, I am not bearing gifts," I said, “I want to request a favor," chiding myself, why didn’t I pop some corn and bring it with me?
Over the past months I have brought snacks out them, as they stand guard protecting our perimeter at night. Our corpsmen, the lowest in pecking order, in true military fashion are crossed trained; they serve during the day on the wards and rotate perimeter guard duty at night. Not fair from my opinion of military life.
One of five guys, chosen by the Sgt. has the privilege of sleeping all night. The lucky soldier is the “super-nummerary-of-the-guard.” Qualifying for this coveted position depends entirely on the favor of the Sgt. This is when nurses morph into “moms” for our post- teen soldiers. The medics value our attention and just before inspection drop by the ward, for the nurses’ inspection. I do my best to help them 'look good' for the real-deal. I run my hand over a the face of a grinning soldier, trying to detect stubble from a shaved soft peach fuss and ask,
“Did you just shave?”
“Adjust your collar so I can get a closer look at your hair”
I ceremoniously pull out my bandage scissors and become a fearsome barber, snipping stray hairs escaping down the back of the soldiers’ neck. Lastly, I talk to my medic about current events;
"Tell me what's happening back in The World,” I ask, knowing he will endure relentless quizzing from the Sgt; a man known as a grim taskmaster. This selection routine takes place each evening, an approach used to instill a bit of military bearing on young soldiers.
“No, I didn’t come to hang out” I reply to his question, “I just want to ask if I can walk on the beach.”
“Yes Ma'am, it’s OK by me, I will pass on to the guy doing duty with me where you are. Right now he’s sleeping on the beach, we’re gonna switch places in a few minutes.”
With permission granted, I meander down the beach far enough to get away from the glare of floodlights and strands of music from the O’Club; a poor rendition of the lines to Jim Croce’s song:
He's bad, bad Leroy Brown
baddest man in the whole **** town
Badder than old King Kong
Meaner than a junkyard dog
I slip out of my flip-flops and walk in the surf, close my eyes and try to pretend I am on the other side of the world. I visualize myself walking on a beach in the warm Gulf waters near Corpus Christi, Texas where my parents live. I walk and walk and walk, trying to distance myself from today, from yesterday and from tomorrow. I try to picture that the water, pounding on this war torn Asian shore, is part of the same great ocean that connects continents and these same waves will ultimately wash to the shores of lovely Carmel and Big Sur and to peace, sweet peace; where men, women and children and old men and old women are not destroyed with the toss of a grenade or burned to a crisp in the wake of a burst of napalm dropped out of a clear blue sky. A junkyard dog fares better than humanity in this ragged edge of the word.
Exhaustion slips into my bones, I need to get back to my hooch. Turning around I walk toward the guard shack and my flip-flops. By now the guards have switched places, however unknown to me, my friend failed tell the next guard that I am on the beach. In the dim-lit moonless sky, I barely make out the sleeping form of a large man, presumably a guard, resting in the sand near my flip-flops. I walk closer and closer toward the soldier when I heard a sharp metallic snick, the unmistakable sound of an M-16 being primed…my God…he is going to shoot me! I flatten myself on the sand screaming. ”Don’t shoot! I am American!”
Silence hangs in the air as I plaster myself closer to mother earth …finally; a voice heaves a loud sigh of palatable relief. In a slow deep southern drawl the voice breaks the silence with a line I will not soon forget,
“Will-you-just-whistle-Dixie?”
Tasting my sweat while spitting sand, I pucker my lips and whistle, “O, I wish I was in the land of cotton.”