CHAPTER 3

ROCKET CITY

 

We arrived at the Seventy-First Evacuation Hospital in Pleiku after a noisy but blessedly brief flight from Long Binh. The deafening roar of the rotor blades and the din of the engine made conversation difficult. Not that I wanted to talk. I was too exhausted. And scared. Captain Martin’s words, as much as I tried to push them out of my mind, volleyed through my thoughts, threatening to pierce every idealistic, patriotic bubble that had bolstered me since the day I signed up. Not that I was that idealistic. Or patriotic. I was just angry.

As we lifted off, his words—and his stern look—churned up the fear I’d fought to keep down. Who did he think he was, telling me to maim myself to get out of doing the job I came to do? So what if he was a local hero? He should know better. By the time we landed, I was so spitting mad at Captain Seth Martin, I was out of my seat the second he shut off the engine.

“Hold your horses, Kimosabe,” he shouted. “Stay put until the rotors slow down. You wouldn’t want those long raven tresses of yours all tangled up.”

“But—”

“Sit!”

Mickie yanked me back down onto my seat.

“What’s wrong with you?” she mouthed.

“Nothing,” I mouthed back, staring out the front window. Red dust swirled in the wash of the slowing rotor blades, in the steamy waves undulating off the tarmac. Or was the dull ache behind my eyes affecting my sight?

“I thought it was supposed to be cooler here,” Mickie said, her voice still in talk-louder-than-the-rotors mode.

Captain Martin twisted around in his seat and grinned. “Cooler, yes. Cool, no. Welcome to Pleiku, ladies.”

Pushing open his door, he hopped out of the chopper, then shoved open the sliding back door next to me. I ignored the hand he extended and jumped out on my own, stumbling when my ankle buckled on the hard surface. I would have landed on my can or my face, but he grabbed my arm, steadying me. Before I could break his hold on me, a mud-splattered Jeep screeched to a stop beside us. Grinning behind the wheel was a short, stocky soldier with a boonie hat jammed on his head.

“Ah, your limo, ladies,” Captain Martin said, stuffing our bags into the back. “Sergeant Campbell will take you to your living quarters.”

With that he gave a curt nod and strode away. Well, that’s that. I settled in the back of the Jeep after Mickie claimed the front seat. Our first stop was headquarters, where we signed in and collected our gear: helmet, flak jacket, boots, fatigues, and .45 caliber pistol with ammo.

“A lot of good this’ll do us, considering they never taught us how to use it,” Mickie said, dropping her gun on top of the growing pile.

“Nurses don’t need to know how to shoot,” I said. “We’re here to save lives, not take them.”

In the distance a shell exploded.

After meeting Major Lennon, the Seventy-First’s nursing supervisor, we crammed our gear into the Jeep and climbed in. I gripped the bottom of my seat as we zipped across the base, passing guard towers, tanks rumbling across the compound, and dozens of metal Quonset huts and wooden buildings with corrugated steel roofs, all covered with red dust. In the distance artillery and mortars sounded continuously.

“Artillery Hill, also known as Arty Hill,” our escort said, pointing to a smoky mound in the distance. “Where all the racket’s coming from.”

“I never realized this place would be so noisy,” Mickie shouted above the din.

Neither had I. I knew we’d be in a war zone—the entire country was a war zone—but I’d assumed hospitals would be situated in quiet places.

By the time “Soup,” as Sergeant Campbell preferred to be called, deposited us at our hooch, I’d been awake for close to forty-eight hours. The dull ache behind my eyes had escalated into a throbbing headache—a giant rubber band tightening around my head. My entire body felt heavy, like I’d just gotten out of a swimming pool. All I wanted was a shower and a comfy bed. I’d caught a few winks sprawled on my gear, my head on my duffel bag, arm over my eyes, at Travis AFB waiting for our flight in-country. Forget sleeping on the plane. Too noisy, too much movement. Good thing Major Lennon had given us twenty-four hours to settle in before reporting for duty.

Hooch Number Three, our home, was a fifteen-by-forty-foot shack, the third in a row of identical wooden buildings. Soup helped us lug in our stuff. Two of the seven six-by-ten cubicles were unoccupied. Mickie chose the one painted a bright yellow—with paint filched from the air base, Soup said. My room, two doors down, was “puke green.” The red dust was everywhere—on the walls, the metal bed, mattress, the wall locker, the wooden floors. I ran my finger across the windowsill. All I wanted was to drop into bed, but how could I sleep in such filth? Maybe I could find a bucket and rag and swab the place down. I wasn’t about to unpack my clean clothes, let alone lay on that dusty mattress.

I poked my head out the doorway. Hearing Mickie’s voice, I headed to her room. She sat on her bed chatting with a short, thin girl with damp auburn curls, who gave me a tired smile when I stepped in.

“You must be Vangie,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m DeeDee Stewart.”

“DeeDee’s from Oklahoma,” Mickie offered, patting a spot on the bed beside her. Did I imagine it, or did a puff of red rise from the mattress? “Come on. Take a load off.”

I shook my head. “I’d love to—really, I would—but I want to get unpacked and settled in.” I turned to DeeDee. “Do you know where I can get a bucket and some soap?”

“Cleaning supplies are in the latrine next door. But I wouldn’t bother,” she said in a voice that sounded resigned. “You can’t scrub it out.”

An hour later I’d wiped everything in my cubicle with cold water. Hot water, apparently, was a luxury not to be had. After I dumped out the reddish water and put the bucket back in the cleaning closet, I returned to my cubby to unpack. My clothes felt damp as I placed them in my locker, so I left the door ajar. Then I put the sheets, also damp, on the musty smelling mattress.

By the time I was done, my clothes, which I’d worn for two days, were soaked with perspiration. Grabbing a towel and my bath bucket, I headed for the showers, peeking in on Mickie on my way. She lay snoring on her bare mattress, unpacked bags and gear scattered on the dust-covered wooden floor.

After a cold shower I headed back to my room, feeling somewhat refreshed. The hooch was quiet, with most of the nurses either on duty or sleeping. My nightstand looked bare with only a windup alarm clock and my journal. I hung my towel over the open locker door then collapsed on the bed. Pulling the sheet over my middle and the pillow over my head, I gave in to the exhaustion. Nothing bothered me. Not the suffocating heat. Not the lumpy, musty mattress. Not even the rumbling of artillery in the distance. I closed my eyes.

I sat on the grass, my neck arched back, enjoying the fireworks exploding overhead. Bill’s arms wrapped around me. I leaned back against him, wondering why his cologne smelled like sulfur. Another explosion as red, white, and blue sparkles mushroomed above us. The ground shook. I twisted around, but it wasn’t my high school sweetheart that held me. It was Captain Seth Martin.

“Incoming!” The shout pierced my dream. “Vangie, get up! We’re under attack!”

Whistle. BOOM! The windows rattled. I jolted upright.

“Here!” Mickie jammed my helmet on my head and thrust my flak jacket in my hands.

“To the bunker! Now!” an unfamiliar voice shouted.

Mickie and I scrambled to the bunker behind the hooch, where we huddled, clutching each other and trembling, with several other nurses. I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe it would help if I pretended I was on a ride at Kennywood or in a theater watching a scary movie.

“What was that?” Mickie screamed. “I felt something creepy scurry by my feet.”

“Just the rats.” I recognized the voice as DeeDee’s.

“Rats? Oh, God, please no,” Mickie moaned, clutching me tighter. The nausea finally got the best of me. Twisting around, I shoved her away, doubled over, and retched.

“You’ll get used to it,” a resigned voice said.

When the explosions finally stopped, we waited a full fifteen minutes before returning to the hooch. A layer of fresh red dust covered everything in my room.

“You all right?”

No. I want to go home.

Two nurses stood in the doorway. They’d been in the bunker with us. The willowy blond smiled. “Welcome to Rocket City,” she said. “I’m Sarah Devine.”

Her companion, a brunette with dimples, waved. “I’m Beth Phillips. Hey, we’re heading over to the mess hall. Want to come?”

“Is it safe?” I asked. “Aren’t we on red alert?”

Laughing, Sarah stepped to me and draped her arm around my shoulders. She was nearly as tall as me—about five-foot-nine.

“Honey, we’re always under an alert. I don’t even wear my helmet and flak jacket half the time anymore.”

“You learn to live with it,” Beth said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ignore it as much as you can. If you don’t, nothing’ll ever get done. And you’ll go bananas real fast.”

Light flashed in the night sky outside my window, accompanied by a dull thud.

“Will there be any more?” I asked.

“Once they rocket us for the night, that’s it,” Sarah said. “Usually.”

Beth nodded. “Come on. You must be hungry.”

On the way to the mess hall, I noticed Mickie and I were the only ones wearing our helmets and flak jackets, even though the sounds of war reverberated through the evening. Was it ever quiet here? An earsplitting whistle whizzed by overhead. Mickie and I dropped to the ground, our arms over our heads. Beth and Sarah burst out laughing.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Mickie said, getting up and brushing herself off. “We could’ve been killed.”

“I thought you said they were done for the night,” I said, pushing myself off the broken pavement.

Beth shrugged. “Maybe they need more target practice.”

How could they could be so . . . casual . . . so . . . cavalier . . . in the face of death? I tried to act nonchalant, but inside I was terrified. I’d never last a whole year.

At the mess hall, I made a cup of tea. It didn’t taste like back-home tea, but at least I could drink it out of a real cup and it didn’t taste like sulfur. A dark-haired soldier strode to the table, pulled out the chair next to Sarah, then casually draped his arm across the back of her chair. Her face glowed as she leaned close to him. I glanced at the captain’s bars on his epaulet.

“Who’s the guy?” Mickie asked Beth, nodding towards them.

Beth took a sip of her soda. “Sarah’s fella, Dan. Cobra pilot. They’re engaged. They’re getting married after their tours are over.”

The loneliness hit like the mortar attack. Maybe I shouldn’t have broken up with Bill. At least then I’d have somebody. As it was, the only letters I’d get would be from Mickie’s family, and that at the insistence of Mickie’s mother.

“What’s a Cobra?” Mickie asked.

“It’s a gunship. Dust Offs are medical evacuation choppers, so they aren’t armed. The Cobras accompany them and provide firepower and protection while the Dust Offs pick up the casualties.”

While I nibbled on crackers and sipped tea, several other nurses and a couple of doctors came to the table and introduced themselves. They seemed happy to see us. “New blood,” they said. Their warmth made me feel welcome, and I found my loneliness and terror subsiding. If they made it, I could too. I’d just have to take it one day, one minute, at a time. For the first time in my life I realized I had no promise of tomorrow, of even another hour. It was a sobering thought.

“Evening, ladies. I see you’ve settled in.” Captain Seth Martin pulled out the empty chair next to me and sat. I tried to drum up the anger I’d felt earlier towards him, but I couldn’t. Instead a feeling of warmth and joy coursed through me. I was about to smile a greeting when another explosion shook the building. The next thing I knew, he was pulling me across the room. Shoving me down against the wall, he dropped down beside me, put his arms around me and covered me with his upper body. Another blast. The building shook. I cringed closer to him, feeling his heartbeat, his breath on my face.

“I didn’t hear the whistle,” I said.

He pulled me closer, his lips against my ear. “When you hear the whistle, the rocket’s going past you.”

“How long will this go on? All night?” I said, vainly trying to push my hair up under my helmet with trembling fingers.

He pushed my stubborn hair out of my eyes and smiled. “You’ll get used to it,” he said.

“So I’m told, but I’m not so sure.”

Ten minutes later—if it even was ten minutes—everybody was sitting at the tables, acting as though nothing had happened. Seth sat beside me, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Are you stationed here?” I asked, noticing the ripple in his cheek as he swallowed.

“My unit, the 283^rd MDHA, is based here,” he said.

“MDHA?”

“Medical Detachment Helicopter Ambulance.”

I glanced at the shield-shaped, dark blue patch on his uniform shirt. White wings against a pale red cross outlined in white. I read the stitched letters.

“How did you get the name ‘Dust Off’?” I asked.

“Back in the early part of the war, the guy who helped get the program started picked it out of a call sign book. Dust Off described our mission better than Gun Runner or Bandit.”

“How?”

“When choppers land, the prop wash from the rotor blades blows dust everywhere. Especially during the dry season.”

I remembered the red dust swirling when we landed and nodded.

“Back then, Dust Off was the call sign only for the Fifty-Seventh, but in time the entire medical evacuation program became known as Dust Off.”

“But it’s more than a call sign,” Sarah added, squeezing Dan’s arm. “It’s a symbol of hope.”

“That’s right,” said a soldier sitting across the table. “When you’re lying in the jungle, wounded and wondering if you’re gonna make it to your twentieth birthday, the sound of that chopper and the sight of that bright red cross give you something to hang on to. That is, if Charlie don’t shoot it down.”

“Shoot what down?” I asked. “The chopper?”

Seth nodded. “To the VC, those red crosses are nothing but targets.”

I gasped. “The red cross is an international symbol. The Geneva Convention—”

“Means nothing to them.”

I was amazed. “You mean they actually shoot down medical helicopters?”

“And fire mortars at hospitals.”

How little I really knew of the war. I’d never heard of Dust Off until I landed right smack dab in the middle of the war zone. I knew that choppers brought the wounded to the hospitals, but that’s as far as it went. Now those choppers suddenly became personal. They had a name. Those wounded soldiers, those pilots and their crews, all had faces. The papers back home gave only gruesome body counts and reports that made our side look bad.

Another explosion rocked the building. What sounded like chunks of concrete rained on the metal roof. As we scrambled back to the wall, I wondered if I’d make it out alive.