Christmas Past

by
David Avery

Author's Note: In late '69 I was wounded in the chest, arm and back while standing in the TC's hatch of D31 when a kid with an AK-47 rifle popped out of a spider hole I had overlooked while clearing a bunker complex near Loc Ninh. Christmas eve 1969 found me strapped to a stretcher and wearing an oxygen mask on a C-141 starlifter medivac flight bound for Walter Reed.

If I just breathe slowly and don't panic, I can get through this. It's only a few hours, if I just concentrate on taking each breath, one at a time. The oxygen mask makes my face itch and the aircraft oxygen feels cold and tastes metallic. Breath IN slowly. Count , 1, 2, 3; Let it out slowly. The huge C-141, the military version of the Boeing 707, is full, with stretchers stacked four high in four long rows down the length of the aircraft; two inboard and two outboard, like the four sticks of jumpers I remember the aircraft caries for parachute jumps. Come to think of it, the only other times I been on a C-141 it was to jump out of it. There are maybe a dozen flight nurses -- hard to tell since I can't turn my head to look around the cabin. Breath IN. Count1, 2, 3; Breath Out 1, 2, 3 Just keep breathing slowly. If you let yourself get short of breath you'll never catch up. It would be silly to die here on the evac plane after surviving medivac from the field and surgery in the field hospital.

The sun was bright when they carried me on to the plane at Bien Hoa. And felt hot after days in an air-conditioned ward at the evac hospital. Even on the taxi way outside of Saigon the green smell of the jungle cuts through the odor of burned jet fuel. It must have been a hundred degrees lying on the tarmac while the load master and the nurses shuffled slot assignments for the stretchers on the flight. Then it became as dark as a cave as they carried me into the cargo bay of the plane. I half expected guys to cheer when the wheels came off the ground in Vietnam, but no one did. Wonder how long the flight to Andrews AFB will take? Let's see, it's twelve thousand miles and a C-141 cruses at what, about 450 mph? Hard to do the division - my mind is fuzzy. Wonder if I can stay calm however many hours it may be?

Just breath slowllllly and stay awake. One breath at a time. At least the nurses are all clustered around the stretcher two spaces aft - the kid there doesn't sound too good. As long as no one is fussing with me I guess I must be OK. Breathe. Breathe. The plane seems warm. I wonder if they have the cabin heater set higher for these evac flights. I don't remember ever being warm in a C-141 when we jumped from them at Benning. Breathe slowllly.

Nurse in a flight suit touches my good arm. "How you doing lieutenant?" I nod, having no breath to speak. She probably couldn't hear me over the engine noise anyway. I point at my mouth, asking for water. She shakes her head but gives me a million dollar smile and moves on to the next stretcher above me. Same singsong tone, "How you doing sergeant?" Despite my plan to concentrate and stay awake, I find myself dozing off. Must be the morphine. Just breathe! I come fully awake when I hear the change in flight noise as the flaps and main gear comedown. Are we are Andrews -- how long was I asleep? "This is your pilot speaking. We will be landing at Anchorage for refueling. Flight nurses take your arrival stations."

Anchorage. I always wanted to visit Alaska, although I had climbing mount McKinley in mind then. Guess I won't be climbing again in any case. Hope he puts this thing down smoothly, I'm not up to a crash today. Remember that clown who ground looped the Caribou taking you into Quan Loi? We land and taxi for what seems like a long time. The engines are shutdown and the plane is very warm and quiet. Then I hear the hydraulics of the rear ramp and a gust of Alaskan winter blows through the cargo bay. Turning my head, I can just see the terminal building through the snow, and a big lighted Christmas wreath. It is 3 AM local time. Up the ramp walk a half dozen middle aged women in civilian winter clothing with cardboard trays of coffee in Styrofoam cups, chattering and greeting the guys on the stretchers near the ramp. They sound like my mom and her sisters.

Finally, one gets to me, smiles and says "Merry Christmas Lieutenant! Welcome Home! Some coffee while you're waiting?"

It is Christmas, 1969 and I think I'm going to live.