Morale

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 35 White Dog Rescue

Sergeant Vance frowned as he reached up and grasped one of the pilot's wrists. Failing to find what he was searching for, he reached higher and pressed the tips of his fingers into the area behind Murdock's jaw.

The black Sergeant stood still, his eyes intent on the expression on the medic's face. When the firm line of Vance's mouth relaxed, B. A. breathed a soft "Thank God."

"He isn't dead. He has a faint pulse." Turning to look at Hannibal and Sergeant Robotti, the medic motioned with his head down the path. "Assuming the chopper sent to transport you and your two men will not have a hoist, we have to get them both out of this dense undergrowth and to a place where the chopper can get down close enough to pick them up. I can work on their injuries until then. Maybe that place where we crossed the river?"

Hannibal nodded. "Good thinking. It's wide enough for the chopper and there's a fairly level, dry bank to lay him down." He glanced at the black man, noted the pain and concern reflected in his eyes and moved behind him.

It's time for B. A. to be relieved of his burden. That wound doesn't look like a through-and-through shot. He's losing a lot of blood from it.

The Colonel tightly wound his arms around Murdock's chest to pull him off B. A.'s back. "Sergeant Robotti, give me a hand here."

"Leave 'im, Hannibal." B. A.'s fierce growl stopped both men before they could make the transfer. Hannibal shook his head in irritation.

Now is not the time to be a hero or a martyr.

"You're wounded, Sergeant. It's time to let someone else take over." The Colonel placed his hand on the big man's upper arm and turned him to make eye contact.

"Nobody carries my li'l brother but me. I owe 'im, Hannibal." B. A. gripped the pilot's upper legs tighter and hunched over to shift him into a better position on his back. "I owe 'im."

"Sergeant Baracus . . . "

B. A. scowled at the Colonel's use of his rank. His voice got lower, huskier. "Look, man. We gotta get movin'. Back where ya left us there's a dead gook. Don't know if there's more where he come from."

Hannibal scanned the jungle around them before returning his gaze to the defiant man in front of him. "Your kill?"

The black man shook his head and shifted his eyes in the direction of the man he carried.

The Colonel glanced at the unconscious pilot and frowned.

So that's what this is about.

Making a decision, he nodded his understanding. Hearing the full story of what had happened would have to wait. "Let's head out then. I'll take point. Robotti, you take the rear. Keep your eyes and ears open, all of you."

In less time than he anticipated it would take, the Colonel led the small group back to the bank of the Sông Bồ.

Robotti and Hannibal gently supported Murdock's body as they removed him from his position on B. A.'s back and lay him on the river bank. The muscular Sergeant knelt beside the pilot, his face set in a worried scowl as the two men took positions to guard them.

"He didn' even make a sound when ya lifted 'im offa me," he muttered under his breath. With more gentleness than Hannibal had ever seen him use, B. A. stroked back the shaggy brown hair from Murdock's face.

Vance squatted beside the black man and opened his first aid supply kit. "You're first, Sergeant."

B. A. pulled away from his touch, giving Hannibal a look of protest. "He's hurt worse 'n I am."

"B. A." The Colonel glanced down, his face grim with concern. "Sergeant Vance is a medic. He knows what he's doing."

Vance gave his reasons in a sharp tone. He forced eye contact as he grasped the big man's lower arm. "Your wound is bleeding. The bullet is still in there. His wounds have been there for a while. He's not bleeding. I take care of your bleeding first. Then I see what I can do for him."

The medic ripped apart a package and applied the gauze directly over the wound. "Now I want you to apply pressure to that and raise your arm up over your head. Keep it there until I say otherwise."

Vance rolled Murdock over onto his stomach and glanced at his swollen knee and the infected wounds on the backs of his legs. He shook his head at the sight of all of the criss-crossing slashes and removed the knife from his belt. Reopening Hannibal's initial incision, he pressed the accumulated pus and blood out from around the knee. Except for a small shudder, the Captain did not move or make a sound. Before turning his attention to the pilot's infected wounds, Vance checked the gauze over B. A's injury.

"The bleeding seems to be slowing down. Keep your arm elevated and if it still looks like the bleeding's controlled, I'll put a bandage around there to keep the gauze in place." Vance returned his attention to the pilot and began the work of debridement. Over each wound he applied a film of povidone iodine.

"Is Murdock gonna be alright, Doc?" B. A. rasped through gritted teeth as the medic layered a strip of gauze around his upper arm.

"I don't have the supplies to do the things he has to have done. He needs an IV set up with fluids and antibiotics. The iodine is a starter antiseptic but he's going to need a lot more than that." Vance raised his head and stared at Hannibal, solemnly acknowledging his previous medical treatment. "You did what you could, Colonel."

Hannibal shook his head and looked away.

But was it enough?

Robotti twisted his head over his shoulder to give the unconscious Captain a curious look. "Murdock? Is that what his name is?"

"Captain H. M. Murdock. Why?" The black Sergeant kept his eyes on the injured man in front of him. Reaching out to carefully touch Murdock on the shoulder, he frowned at the sneer in the other man's voice.

"Hey, Vance. Wasn't that the crazy son-of-a-bitch that flew us up to LZ Sally a while back? Nearly made me lose my stomach on that trip." Robotti chuckled, then stifled it as B. A. glared at him.

"This man's the best damn Huey pilot in all o' Nam. Ain' crazy and ain' the other thin' ya called him. An' if ya lost yer stomach 'cause of his flyin', maybe ya ate too much 'fore ya flew with 'im." The black man rose to his feet. Towering above his counterpart, he clenched his hands into fists.

The Colonel glanced at the black Sergeant in surprise. If it wasn't such a serious situation, the statement would seem humorous coming from his mouth.

Can I get that on record, Sergeant?

"Stow it. Both of you," the medic ordered as he took Murdock's pulse and lifted his eyelids one by one.

"Problems, Sergeant Vance?" Hannibal directed their attention back to the pilot.

Hang in there, Murdock. Help is coming. Don't give up.

The medic rocked back on his heels and swiped at his eyes with hands stained with blood. "I sure wish that chopper would get here." He glared at Robotti and B. A. "And he isn't going to get any better waiting here and listening to you two argue."

Looking up at Hannibal, Vance shook his head grimly. "I can't do any more than I have and I don't think that's enough. Does he have anybody waiting for him back home?"

Hannibal opened his mouth to answer but B. A. spoke before he did. "His Gramma an' Grampa an' a special gal he was talkin' 'bout marryin' someday." The Colonel gave him a curious look and the Sergeant explained, his eyes averted. "Face told me. Good ta know in case we gotta . . . well . . . you know . . ."

Yes, I do know. And I hope one of us don't have to pay them the personal visit to tell them about all of this.

B. A. knelt down beside Murdock again, watching him for any signs of consciousness. For several minutes, no one spoke.

"Listen." The Colonel held up one hand to keep them all silent. At first none of them could distinguish the sound above all of those around them.

Robotti shielded his eyes against the sun and was the first to see the glint off the chopper's cockpit windshield. "They're coming."

"Pop that smoke, Sergeant!" Hannibal ordered. "Let 'em know where we are."

As the light purple smoke drifted lazily up into the sky, the chopper approached, then hovered about two hundred feet above them. The right side door opened. The crew chief extended the Stokes litter beyond the skids with the rotating hoist and slowly lowered it with the cable and pulley system. It spun crazily in the air with the wind currents from the rotor blades.

As soon as the litter reached the ground, Hannibal and Sergeant Vance dragged it closer to where Murdock lay. Strapping him belly down on the makeshift bed, the medic signaled to the medical corpsman perched on the right skid to raise it. The ascent to the chopper was just as dizzying as the descent. The Colonel smiled sadly.

Murdock would have loved it if he was awake.

Hannibal glanced at B. A. His eyes were following the swaying litter. He gritted his teeth together in apprehension.

"Don' tell me I gotta hitch a ride on that movin' bed. That's worse 'n flyin' inta a hot LZ in a monsoon rain." B. A.'s voice was barely a mumble.

"Come on, Sergeant. You've dove out of airplanes with a parachute. How is this any different?" The Colonel clapped B. A. on the back. The black Sergeant grimaced at Hannibal, then turned his attention back to the evacuation in progress. Together they watched the corpsman gently unload Murdock into the chopper and signal for the litter to be lowered for the last two men.

With the litter again on the ground, Hannibal gave Robotti and Vance a crisp salute and grin before positioning himself beside B. A. on the flat surface. "Tell your Lieutenant Dunn we appreciate his help. Thanks, guys."

Vance squinted and saluted as the litter began ascending. "I hope Captain Murdock lives to fly again. Take care, Colonel Smith. Sergeant Baracus." With that, the medic and Sergeant Robotti shouldered their rifles and began the trek back to their unit.

With B. A.'s fingers clutching the edge of the apparatus in a death grip and Hannibal trying to keep him calm, he couldn't answer. But in his mind he thought of the injured man already being transfused with an IV in the chopper with the large red cross on its side.

Yeah, I do, too, Sergeant.