The Survivors Have No Faces
Oct 22, 2014 2:35:20 GMT -6
Post by Moderator on Oct 22, 2014 2:35:20 GMT -6
The Survivors Have No Faces
By Jeff Seeber
In a few hours, it will be dawn. We know they're out there. They know we're coming. By noon, some of us will be counting bodies and some of us will be the counted. We sit here in the dark, a few hoping the minute hand never moves, a few wanting to get it over with right now, and the rest not caring one way or the other. There's nothing left to do now but wait.
One Marine stares into an empty c-rat can. Another looks out into the blackness of the night, hot-boxing a Pall Mall. Another reaches around his side to make sure his Ka-Bar and his spare mags are positioned exactly where he wants them. Several guys check the weapons that they've already checked and rechecked before. Sarge reads the latest letter from his wife for the tenth time. Gunny folds up the map he's looked at five times in the past hour and puts it back into his pocket.
I've checked my medical bag and lined-up the morphine syrettes, hoping I have enough. I've checked my pistol. I put a 4-pack of Winstons in my shirt pocket hoping it might slow down a bullet or a fragment headed for my heart. I'm as ready as I'm going to get. Now it's time to chain-smoke until we get the order to saddle up.
I look at my Marines one by one. I start thinking about the first time I went through this months ago. Now it seems like a previous lifetime. Back then, every muscle in my body twitched. Every bone ached. Every nerve was electrified. I wondered if I would be able to do my job under fire. It didn't take long to find out. Our squad was ambushed on my first patrol. It was like somebody flipped a switch inside my brain when I heard someone holler, "Corpsman UP!".
I ignored the deafening gunfire, the explosions, the stinking smoke, and ran toward the voice as if I had done it a hundred times. I was able to stop the bleeding, sew enough stitches into a Marine's leg to close the wound and signal for two guys to help me move him to the rear. Once we had him out of the line of fire and I knew he would make it, I went behind a nearby tree and puked up everything I had eaten for the last week.
It wasn't because of fear and it wasn't because of the blood. It was releasing the worry. I proved that I could do my job. I had proved it to the guys and to myself. When I came out from behind the tree, one of the Marines offered me a cigarette. He lit my smoke with his Zippo and said, "Good job, Doc." That was the first time I was called "Doc". No one ever said a word about me vomiting.
These Marines are my guys. I'm responsible for them. Between firefights, I pull leeches off them, fix bamboo cuts, give them salt tablets and do a dozen other things. When the shooting and the bleeding starts, I'm the one they ask for, even before they start cursing, before they start making deals with God or calling out for their mother or their wife. When a guy gets hit, I'm in charge. It's all on me. Doc is the boss until the medical situation is over, one way or the other.
I've loaded guys with missing legs, arms, most of their stomach or some of their head into a dustoff. I very seldom find out if they were still alive when they arrived at the aid station. All I know is that they were still breathing when the chopper lifted from the LZ. I've had to answer the question, "Doc, am I going to die?" too many times to count. I have never lied to a wounded Marine and I never will. The very least I can do is tell them the truth.
You would think I could remember the faces of the guys I've saved. I can't. I can't remember any of the faces of the Marines I've helped. They have all melted together. I can't tell any of them apart. All I see is a composite face of a guy with a combination of all of the wounds I've seen since I arrived here. I see him being loaded into a Huey and flying away. The last thing he does before he's out of range is wave to me. I see his hand but not his face. I can't remember any of the faces. I wish I could.
If I was able to see even one face of a guy I saved, I might be able to deal with the memory of those I lost. I remember every face of every Marine I lost. I know I did everything I could to help them, but I still lost them. Even the guys who were gone when I got to them are burned into my brain. I tried to count them and I guess I've helped 15 for every one I've lost. It doesn't make any difference, it's only the guys who didn't make it that I remember.
The first Marine who died while I was with him had just enough time to ask me if he was going to make it before he exhaled for the last time. I worked furiously to try to find the hole in the artery in his chest, but there was so much other damage I knew he would bleed out. "Doc, is it bad? Am I dying, Doc?" Before I could answer, he started to gurgle, so I held his hand in mine and told him it didn't look good.
It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like it took an hour for him to die. I didn't let go of his hand until Sarge tapped my shoulder and quietly said, "Doc, let's get him ready for the chopper." Just as I would do every time thereafter, I did my best to clean him up with water from my canteen and some gauze pads. I tried to cover his wounds with what was left of his uniform. I took care of his dog tags and then turned to ask for some help to carry him to the LZ.
That's when I noticed the other guys in the platoon were standing in a semi-circle, watching in total silence. They were looking at me with an expression on their faces that I can't describe and I'll never forget. A few weeks later, after more guys had died and I saw that same look again, I realized they were probably picturing me treating each of them with the same respect and care when it came their turn to die.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was sure I knew everything there was to know. Then I enlisted in the Navy and just a few months later I arrived in hell. Within days, I learned that everything I thought I knew about life, about humanity, about fairness, about justice, about good and evil, was wrong. I learned that everything I once thought important was actually immaterial and irrelevant.
Within days, I saw with my own eyes, and did with my own hands, things that no human should be capable of doing to other humans. I also learned that my hands were sometimes able to save a Marine's life and send him on his way home, away from war, away from this hell on earth.
I learned that the Marines I served with were willing to sacrifice themselves to keep me alive so I could keep their buddies alive. I learned what brotherhood is all about. I learned the definition of respect and the meaning of honor. I learned that I will never forget the Marines I lost. I learned then, and it's still true today, more than four decades later, the survivors have no faces.
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In remembrance of a U.S. Navy FMF (Fleet Marine Force) Corpsman who served with the 2/5 Marines in South Vietnam in 1969 and 1970. He died from Agent Orange-related cancer in October, 2014. Anchors Aweigh and Semper Fi, Steve. Rest in peace, my brother.
By Jeff Seeber
In a few hours, it will be dawn. We know they're out there. They know we're coming. By noon, some of us will be counting bodies and some of us will be the counted. We sit here in the dark, a few hoping the minute hand never moves, a few wanting to get it over with right now, and the rest not caring one way or the other. There's nothing left to do now but wait.
One Marine stares into an empty c-rat can. Another looks out into the blackness of the night, hot-boxing a Pall Mall. Another reaches around his side to make sure his Ka-Bar and his spare mags are positioned exactly where he wants them. Several guys check the weapons that they've already checked and rechecked before. Sarge reads the latest letter from his wife for the tenth time. Gunny folds up the map he's looked at five times in the past hour and puts it back into his pocket.
I've checked my medical bag and lined-up the morphine syrettes, hoping I have enough. I've checked my pistol. I put a 4-pack of Winstons in my shirt pocket hoping it might slow down a bullet or a fragment headed for my heart. I'm as ready as I'm going to get. Now it's time to chain-smoke until we get the order to saddle up.
I look at my Marines one by one. I start thinking about the first time I went through this months ago. Now it seems like a previous lifetime. Back then, every muscle in my body twitched. Every bone ached. Every nerve was electrified. I wondered if I would be able to do my job under fire. It didn't take long to find out. Our squad was ambushed on my first patrol. It was like somebody flipped a switch inside my brain when I heard someone holler, "Corpsman UP!".
I ignored the deafening gunfire, the explosions, the stinking smoke, and ran toward the voice as if I had done it a hundred times. I was able to stop the bleeding, sew enough stitches into a Marine's leg to close the wound and signal for two guys to help me move him to the rear. Once we had him out of the line of fire and I knew he would make it, I went behind a nearby tree and puked up everything I had eaten for the last week.
It wasn't because of fear and it wasn't because of the blood. It was releasing the worry. I proved that I could do my job. I had proved it to the guys and to myself. When I came out from behind the tree, one of the Marines offered me a cigarette. He lit my smoke with his Zippo and said, "Good job, Doc." That was the first time I was called "Doc". No one ever said a word about me vomiting.
These Marines are my guys. I'm responsible for them. Between firefights, I pull leeches off them, fix bamboo cuts, give them salt tablets and do a dozen other things. When the shooting and the bleeding starts, I'm the one they ask for, even before they start cursing, before they start making deals with God or calling out for their mother or their wife. When a guy gets hit, I'm in charge. It's all on me. Doc is the boss until the medical situation is over, one way or the other.
I've loaded guys with missing legs, arms, most of their stomach or some of their head into a dustoff. I very seldom find out if they were still alive when they arrived at the aid station. All I know is that they were still breathing when the chopper lifted from the LZ. I've had to answer the question, "Doc, am I going to die?" too many times to count. I have never lied to a wounded Marine and I never will. The very least I can do is tell them the truth.
You would think I could remember the faces of the guys I've saved. I can't. I can't remember any of the faces of the Marines I've helped. They have all melted together. I can't tell any of them apart. All I see is a composite face of a guy with a combination of all of the wounds I've seen since I arrived here. I see him being loaded into a Huey and flying away. The last thing he does before he's out of range is wave to me. I see his hand but not his face. I can't remember any of the faces. I wish I could.
If I was able to see even one face of a guy I saved, I might be able to deal with the memory of those I lost. I remember every face of every Marine I lost. I know I did everything I could to help them, but I still lost them. Even the guys who were gone when I got to them are burned into my brain. I tried to count them and I guess I've helped 15 for every one I've lost. It doesn't make any difference, it's only the guys who didn't make it that I remember.
The first Marine who died while I was with him had just enough time to ask me if he was going to make it before he exhaled for the last time. I worked furiously to try to find the hole in the artery in his chest, but there was so much other damage I knew he would bleed out. "Doc, is it bad? Am I dying, Doc?" Before I could answer, he started to gurgle, so I held his hand in mine and told him it didn't look good.
It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like it took an hour for him to die. I didn't let go of his hand until Sarge tapped my shoulder and quietly said, "Doc, let's get him ready for the chopper." Just as I would do every time thereafter, I did my best to clean him up with water from my canteen and some gauze pads. I tried to cover his wounds with what was left of his uniform. I took care of his dog tags and then turned to ask for some help to carry him to the LZ.
That's when I noticed the other guys in the platoon were standing in a semi-circle, watching in total silence. They were looking at me with an expression on their faces that I can't describe and I'll never forget. A few weeks later, after more guys had died and I saw that same look again, I realized they were probably picturing me treating each of them with the same respect and care when it came their turn to die.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was sure I knew everything there was to know. Then I enlisted in the Navy and just a few months later I arrived in hell. Within days, I learned that everything I thought I knew about life, about humanity, about fairness, about justice, about good and evil, was wrong. I learned that everything I once thought important was actually immaterial and irrelevant.
Within days, I saw with my own eyes, and did with my own hands, things that no human should be capable of doing to other humans. I also learned that my hands were sometimes able to save a Marine's life and send him on his way home, away from war, away from this hell on earth.
I learned that the Marines I served with were willing to sacrifice themselves to keep me alive so I could keep their buddies alive. I learned what brotherhood is all about. I learned the definition of respect and the meaning of honor. I learned that I will never forget the Marines I lost. I learned then, and it's still true today, more than four decades later, the survivors have no faces.
-------------------------------------------------------
In remembrance of a U.S. Navy FMF (Fleet Marine Force) Corpsman who served with the 2/5 Marines in South Vietnam in 1969 and 1970. He died from Agent Orange-related cancer in October, 2014. Anchors Aweigh and Semper Fi, Steve. Rest in peace, my brother.