Duty Is Color Blind
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 28 Wounded in Body and Mind
Face was thankful the room was dimly lit. Only the lamp on the right side of the bed was on. It highlighted the unmarred side of Murdock's face, the side which seemed so peaceful in sleep. The bruised lump on his forehead, stitched gash across his cheek and swollen blackened eye were not as pronounced when in shadow.
Doctor Hernandez and the Colonel had gotten Murdock undressed down to his T-shirt and boxers and under the covers after surgery. The bloodied khaki pants with their one cut-off leg were balled up on the chair where the jacket was draped. His socks were neatly tucked into his high top tennies.
Face positioned an armchair within inches of the right side of the head of the bed. If Murdock should rouse and wonder where he was, the Lieutenant wanted him to receive some comfort knowing his best friend, his brother, was near.
He thought back to his childhood growing up in the Catholic orphanage. He had never thought much of a God that would allow so many children to be abandoned by their parents and then tell them through the priests and nuns that He was their Father.
His own deceased biological father, A. J. Bancroft, left it to Murdock to tell Face too late who he really was. Their friendship had been almost destroyed over that secret. Why had God allowed that?
In Viet Nam there were seriously injured men who prayed before succumbing to their wounds. God hadn't answered them, had He?
Something about the whole God thing kept Face thinking about it. There had been times when he saw situations turn out right after someone prayed in desperation. In the orphanage chapel, people lit candles before praying for their loved ones. There was a pillar candle on the dresser against the wall.
Murdock shuddered violently and groaned. Face reached out to place one hand on the pilot's shoulder. "I'm here, Murdock. You're not alone."
The injured man swallowed once and relaxed into sleep again. The Lieutenant stared at his friend and then at the candle.
Standing, he went to the dresser and brought the candle back to the bedside table.
Drawing a lighter out of his jacket, Face lit the wick. It sputtered before giving off a warm steady glow. The faint smell of burning wax wafted toward him as he returned the lighter to his pocket. He leaned forward, resting his head in his arms on the bed, wondering what to do next.
When Hannibal came into the room five hours later, he noted the candle flame guttering in its liquid pool and the dozing Lieutenant.
Murdock's face was tightened in a grimace. His right arm was out from under the covers, his white-knuckled fist gripping the comforter close to where Face slept. His breathing was rapid and shallow.
He looked up at the older man, his right eye glazed with pain. "I . . . didn't want . . . to wake him . . . " His muscles convulsed and Face startled, bolting upright in the chair. He cast a glance at Hannibal, then at Murdock. The pilot tried to smile back but it became another grimace.
"I . . . I'm sorry, Hannibal. I didn't mean to . . . how long have I been sleeping?" Face stammered.
The Colonel's tone was edged with anger. "Maybe five hours. Let me take a look at that gunshot wound."
Face gazed at his friend with guilty eyes as he moved to the other side of the bed and sat down. "I'm sorry, Murdock. I didn't mean to doze off. How long have you been awake?"
The pilot's answer came in a hoarse whisper. "No problemo . . . muchacho . . . not long . . ." He searched for and clutched Face's hand and gave him a weak smile.
Hannibal pulled back the covers to expose the wounded leg. He checked the drain in the sutured wound and the skin around it for redness or heat which would indicate infection. Finding none, he sighed in relief and checked the IV.
"How's your head, Murdock? Are you feeling pain right now?"
Truth was, his head throbbed constantly and movement made it much worse. The pain was increasing and couldn't be ignored or pushed down anymore.
The anxiety in Hannibal's expression bothered the pilot. He thought of telling a little white lie or trying to kid his way out of answering. He knew he had never been very convincing when he tried it in the past.
As if Hannibal read his mind, he added, "I want the truth, Captain. Not what you think will make me feel better."
Murdock shook his head and the action made a sharp spasm shoot through his head. He tried to suck in his cry of pain but it escaped before he could contain it. He felt Face's hand tighten around his. With effort, he regained control over the ache in his head.
"Some water . . . please." He closed his eyes, shutting out Hannibal's worry and Face's fear.
"This has gone on long enough, Captain. Doctor Hernandez was right. You need the help only the medical staff at a hospital can provide."
The Colonel's words chilled the blood flowing through the pilot's veins. Murdock felt Hannibal's gloved hand on his shoulder as he held back the insane urge to rip the IV out and run away from all of them.
"Murdock, look at me."
He felt himself slipping into the nightmare, harnessed in the pilot's seat, trapped in a rapid free-fall into something he knew they couldn't see.
"Look at me, Captain."
The imagined screams of those Medivac crewmen and his own scream merged as one.
"Murdock, buddy, come on! Snap out of it!" He looked up to see his friend's face inches from his own, the Lieutenant's arm slung across his upper body in an effort to restrain him. Swinging his head to the side and feeling the corresponding nauseating jolt of pain, Murdock saw Hannibal injecting something directly into the IV drip. He knew from his experiences at the V A hospital what that meant.
"Don't . . . " His struggles became less agitated as the sedative did its work. The next hour was a surreal mixture of reality and insanity playing in his mind. He heard the doctor say the words "intracranial hematoma" and "critical" from a distance. Hannibal's muffled response sounded resigned but angry.
Before the call was made for the ambulance, his friends surrounded the bed. They each said goodbye in their own way.
B. A. was trembling as if his whole body was holding back a tremendous weight. He stared at the floor before muttering, "You better get well, brother, or I gonna come and pound ya." Then he abruptly walked out of the room.
They died and it was my doin'. I should've died in the prison camp. No place here for a crazy murderous fool.
Face was shaking, too. He didn't say much. Taking the pilot's hand in his in the special secret handshake Murdock had taught him long ago, the one Face insisted was too silly to use, he said, "I'm never very far away, buddy." He stood at the door waiting for Hannibal.
Faceman, don't go. The chopper was accelerating, the ground coming closer.
The Colonel's goodbye was the one that ripped at Murdock's heart the most. Seeing Hannibal's pained expression, hearing the guilt and sorrow mingled in his tone, hurt more than the constant ache in the pilot's head.
"I never wanted this to happen, Murdock. I tried to prevent it for as long as I could. Just remember, you always have a place on this team. We need you. You're our secret weapon when the chips are down. I'm ordering you to stay alive and get better, Captain." With that, Hannibal stood at attention and saluted.
Then all that was left in the room was Doctor Hernandez and Bart and all of the nightmarish memories crowding in and taking control.
