-Caveat Lector-
WJPBR Email News List [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Peace at any cost is a prelude to war!
SOLDIERS FOR THE TRUTH
December 24, 1999
COMBAT REPORT
What better way to end the year than with a true story which demonstrates
the dedication and courage of the women who care for the injured.
A Nurse's Story
Theresa Morel Hudler as told to Roberta S. Rogers
Suddenly, in my head it is 1968 and I am back in Vietnam.
A monsoon rain has just ended this late-January morning when the UH-1
"Huey" helicopter settles into the mud by the 12th evacuation hospital at
Cu
Chi ("KooChee"). The chopper is a "slick," a troop carrier, not the medevac
chopper we are used to. It is full of wounded men who a few minutes before
were in battle. Their comrades have hastily loaded and flown them to us.
Nurses, aides, medics run under the rush of blades to lift the wounded
through the open sides of the helicopter. Triage is begun. There is the
sickly smell of blood and mud, the shouts of medics, the moan of a man in
pain, the down-winding whine of the chopper's engine.
I have just finished my 12-hour shift and should head for the
"hooch"--the nurses' barracks-- but as nurse in charge, I know I cannot
leave
my staff at a moment like this.
"Lt. Morel, come here, please! Tell us what to do with this one!" I
slop through the mud to where a nurse is standing beside a low stretcher.
I crouch down beside the soldier and observe a massive head wound. This
man will die if we cannot get him to a field hospital up north where they
are
better equipped to deal with head injuries. I motion to have an IV started
and move my mouth down near the soldier's ear.
"Don't worry, sweetheart; we'll get you out of here. We'll get you
someplace safe. Just hang on."
Glancing up through the noise and confusion toward the slowly rotating
helicopter blades, I see crew members heading back to the "slick."
"Wait!" I yell. "Wait! We have to take this man on! We have to take him
up north!"
I scramble to my feet and run toward the chopper, gesticulating
wildly.
The pilot glances at his crew; flying wounded is not their usual duty.
After
a pause, he looks back at me and nods.
Hands lift the litter and slide it in, lodging it against a projecting
bulkhead near the rear. It takes up all but a few inches of the width of
the
chopper's floor. Two door gunners, their heads bulky in huge protective
helmets, climb onto narrow benches behind the litter, facing outward,
sliding
in behind mounted M-60 machine guns.
It is not common for nurses to fly evacuation runs, and I have never
been
in a helicopter before, but there is no one else free to go. I scramble up
onto the metal floor behind the pilot and co-pilot's seats. Someone has
tossed me a flak jacket and a standard "steel-pot" helmet. I see the
gunners
and pilots hooking their helmet headsets into plugs in the roof: The crew
will now be able to communicate with each other. I have no headset, no ear
protectors. My helmet flops back and forth on my small head as I struggle
to
snap the drab flak jacket over my green fatigues and then reach up to check
the patient's IV, attached to a hook overhead.
The co-pilot shouts that voice communication will soon be impossible.
He
tells me to bang on his seat if I need something once we are airborne. He
will swing his boom mike out then so I can shout into it. Now the chopper
engine begins to whine.
I am sitting with my back to the pilots' seats. The metal floor beneath
me vibrates. The doors are open; it is as if the chopper has no sides, but
nothing holds me in. Sweat trickles down my face and under my uniform
where
the flak jacket covers it. I am watching my patient closely as the engine
winds up to full pitch. We lift up just above the trees, the nose drops a
bit, and we move forward. We are flying.
The throbbing of the engine and rotors through the metal roof and the
rush of wind past the open doors are deafening. The roar increases as we
begin to move a hundred miles an hour up and just over jungle trees, down
low over rice patties and fields.
Suddenly the pilots behind me are shouting something about enemy troops
below. Simultaneously the gunners open up with their machine guns. The
chopper begins to fly evasive maneuvers--banking steeply first to one side
and then the other, still following the nape of the earth. The noise
increases; the sounds do not blend; the noise is multidimensional, each
sound
adding to another.
Through the vibrations and throaty pounding of the guns and the whine
of
the engine, despite the rush of a 100-mile-an-hour wind, I force myself to
concentrate on my patient. I turn my thoughts inward to escape facing the
incredible place I find myself. Hours earlier, I had begun my shift with my
daily visit to the chapel area for a quick prayer for safety for myself, my
staff and anyone who would be with us that day.
Now I am praying again, crying silently inside: "Oh dear God! Don't let
him die here in all this! Let us get him to a safe place!"
Suddenly I notice that the IV has come loose from my patient's arm. He
will die! I bang on the pilot's seat to get him to level off, but he cannot
hear me. I must act now.
I scramble to my knees beside the litter. The stretcher is only five
inches off the floor and, as I lean over to reach for the IV needle, my
helmet slips forward. It will come off and hit him! I reach up with one
hand,
pull it off and fling it behind me. It rolls away.
Now I am bent over, fighting for balance, trying to hold the IV in
with
one hand, tearing tape with my teeth and the other hand, screaming silently
over and over, "Oh dear God, don't let him die here!" The noise and
vibrations possess my body.
Is that sweat or tears on my face? I don't know.
Suddenly the gunner on my left stops firing. He pivots sharply 90
degrees
and moves his head down beside mine so his mouth is within an inch of my
ear.
Why is he here? Does he want to speak to me? For an instant I am aware of
him poised there, then there is a "pang-ping" whine. The gunner slumps
unconscious over me and my patient.
A bullet headed straight for my uncovered left temple has ricocheted
off
his helmet with enough force to knock him out, but I realize this only
dimly
at this moment. He will suffocate us. I shove his body to the left and he
rolls onto the litter handles, inches from the open door. I don't know if
he
is tethered or secured in some way or not, so I grab him with my left hand,
still holding the IV needle with my right. I am crying.
"Oh dear God, he'll fall out! Don't let him fall out! Help us dear
God!"
It is a little while-- a minute? an hour? a lifetime?--before the other
gunner looks around and realizes what has happened. He calls on his mike to
the pilots and they break off the fight and head straight north, to the
field
hospital. We land. I unclench my hands from the gunner's fatigues, from the
patient's IV.
Medics pull the gunner down and place him on a stretcher, then slide
the
patient's litter to the ground. I run first to my patient. The IV is in, he
is stable, still alive. He is rushed away. I will never know if he
survives.
I dash to the other litter and bend over the man who took the bullet
for
me, grabbing his wrist, feeling for a pulse. They have removed his helmet;
there is no sign of a wound.
As I bend over him, the gunner's eyes open and focus on me.
"What is it? What do you want?" he asks. Does he think only a moment
has
gone by? I just look at him; I do not understand his questions.
This soldier whose helmeted head covered my bare one so perfectly in
one
bullet-splintered second in time, speaks again, struggling to rise up on
his
elbow: "You called me!"
In a few days the gunner, who will be back flying tomorrow, and I will
meet to compare notes on what happened this January morning in 1968. The
TET
offensive will now be fully under way. He will offer me the bullet-scarred
helmet as a souvenir, but I will insist that he keep it. Already I will not
be sure that I will want anything to remind me of this day, or any, I spend
in Vietnam. I will not remember the gunner's name. But over the years,
even
as I repress my Vietnam memories, I will always acknowledge that in the one
moment I needed protection, a gunner heard a voice cry out "Help me!" so
clearly over the cacophony of noises in a helicopter at war, that he
stopped
firing, turned, and bent down to see what I wanted. Yet with my teeth busy
tearing tape, I had not spoken out loud to him or anyone. I had only cried
out silently, to a God who had heard and answered me "exceedingly
abundantly
beyond" anything I thought to ask.
WRITER'S NOTE:
I had trouble believing it when a friend told me that the sweet-smiled
middle-aged grandmother who sat in front of me in church most Sundays had
been a nurse in Vietnam. I was even more incredulous when I found that
Theresa Morel Hudler was one of the few women who have ever been in actual
combat. With my writer's juices racing, I approached her and set up an
interview.
We met one morning over coffee at my dining room table and she shared
the
basics of her story. Her facts were there, but something was missing. She
hadn't opened up enough to give me the whole story. Then that evening my
phone rang. It was Theresa. As she tried to relax in a warm tub, she
realized a flashback was beginning. Throwing on her robe, she raced for the
phone and dialed my number. "Quick, grab a recorder. I am only going to be
able to do this once!"
I hit the "record" button on my phone answering machine and then
listened. Theresa took me with her as she re-lived Vietnam, 1968. After a
half hour, both of us in tears, her voice trailed off at last. After a few
moments, we prayed together for the peace of God to heal this
shrapnel-memory.
When I hung up and took the micro cassette out of the machine, I knew I
held in my hand a special piece of American history, and a story of God's
protective presence, even in war.
Because I have no military background, before I tried to write
Theresa's
story I did some research. As part of it, I located a UH-1 "Huey"
helicopter
at Ft. Meade, Maryland and received permission to climb around on it. My
husband Bill - an editor for SFTT -- and our oldest son, Tom came with me.
Tom played the wounded soldier and Bill took up Theresa's position while a
helpful National Guardsman sat and moved as the door gunner had. As I
watched
the men replay the motions of that January hour in Theresa's life, I
noticed
patched bullet holes in the metal of the old chopper; it, too, had been to
war. Maybe it was the same one.
The story you have just read is a compilation of Theresa's flashback
and
my research. The first two decades after the war were difficult for
Theresa,
but in the third one she has dealt with her memories and moved on. She is
a
neo-natal nurse at a hospital in Southern Maryland.
---Roberta Rogers
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------
The IRS recognizes SFTT as a 501[c][3] non-profit, educational foundation.
Donations are tax deductible. (SFTT's EIN is 31-1592564.)
Donations may be sent to: SFTT, PO Box 127, Mt. Vernon, VA 22121-0127
**COPYRIGHT NOTICE** In accordance with Title 17 U. S. C. Section 107,
any copyrighted work in this message is distributed under fair use
without profit or payment to those who have expressed a prior interest
in receiving the included information for nonprofit research and educational
purposes only.[Ref. http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/17/107.shtml ]
DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER
==========
CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic
screeds are not allowed. Substance�not soapboxing! These are sordid matters
and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright
frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects
spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL
gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers;
be wary of what you read. CTRL gives no credeence to Holocaust denial and
nazi's need not apply.
Let us please be civil and as always, Caveat Lector.
========================================================================
Archives Available at:
http://home.ease.lsoft.com/archives/CTRL.html
http:[EMAIL PROTECTED]/
========================================================================
To subscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email:
SUBSCRIBE CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED]
To UNsubscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email:
SIGNOFF CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Om
