Morale
AN: I tried my best to find resources, both written and visual, which would describe what a medic in the field would carry, what the interior of a Huey used in dustoffs would look like, what medical procedure would be for the kinds of injuries Murdock and B. A. have, the types of drugs available in circa 1969, what Camp Evans might have looked like, what the MUST hospital and surgical unit at Camp Evans would look like, etc. It is part of the reason this chapter has been so long in being written. If I have gotten anything wrong as far as what I have written, I apologize beforehand. And please let me know if I do need to correct anything. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 36 White Dogs and Red Crosses
As Hannibal and B. A. climbed into the Huey from the Stokes litter, the medical corpsman looked up from where he knelt beside Murdock. He briefly scanned Hannibal head to toe for injuries before doing the same for B. A. His gaze settled on the bloody gauze and the compression bandage around the black Sergeant's bicep, and he motioned for him to have a seat nearby.
He tore off another strip of medical tape from the roll and smoothed it over the IV tube already in Murdock's arm, then set about to take his blood pressure. An olive drab blanket covered the pilot to just under his armpits. He was shivering and his breathing was short and rapid.
"I'll get to you as soon as I make sure your friend here is relatively stable. How long's he been unconscious like this?" The corpsman flashed serious green eyes at the Colonel.
"The last half hour, maybe longer. He's been in and out ever since our escape." Hannibal situated himself close enough to watch what was being done but far enough away so as not to interfere with the treatment being given.
The medic's answering frown set B. A.'s nerves on edge. The corpsman leaned over to the crew chief and muttered something to him, gesturing with his head toward the front. The other man nodded and edged toward the cockpit to convey the message to the pilot.
B. A. moved in closer to Murdock. He growled when the crew chief, returning from the front, gave him a pointed look before maneuvering the hoist to bring the empty litter back into the cargo bay.
Work 'round me, fool. I ain' gonna leave 'im now.
The corpsman lifted the injured man's eyelids to examine the sclera for jaundice. "'Alive enough to have strength to die,'" he mumbled as he shook his head and prepared to take his pulse and temperature.
"What was that, doc?" The black Sergeant narrowed his eyes at the medic.
The corpsman shook his head, regretful his words had been overheard. He shot a sad look at Murdock. "Didn't mean to say it so loud. Part of a poem by Thomas Hardy. Forget it. Doesn't mean anything."
If it didn' mean anythin' why'dya say it?
B. A.'s eyes followed the tubing from its terminus under the tape strips to the bottle of clear fluids hanging on a hook in the interior of the cabin.
"What're ya givin' him?" he demanded, his hands clenching and unclenching with his helplessness to do anything more for his friend.
"B. A." Hannibal reached out to grasp the Sergeant's shoulder but he shook the hand off.
"What're ya givin' him?" he repeated in a rasping growl, hoping his tone would tell the man if Murdock died, he would want good reason why it happened. He was reluctant to grab the man's wrist to force him to talk. He just wanted answers.
"Lactated Ringer solution, for now. His eyes and skin tone aren't jaundiced yet but if they do turn yellow, it means his kidneys aren't functioning properly. He is seriously dehydrated, he has a very high temperature and his heart is overworking to keep him alive," the corpsman snapped back. "Now are you going to let me get my job done?" He raked B. A. with a ferocious glare that challenged him to say anything more.
The black man averted his eyes and grunted something that sounded faintly apologetic.
Even though the oxygen mask concealed much of the pilot's lower face, the right side was clearly in B. A.'s view. He stared at the heavy bruising that colored almost all the skin from temple to chin on that side.
Them guards that busted 'im up so bad got off easy. Well, not Ferret, but them others . . .
His frown deepened. He remembered with shame his own contribution to the black and blue marks along the injured man's jaw, the knockout punch he had delivered to keep Murdock from bringing every enemy soldier in hearing range down on them beside the stream.
Crazy man's lucky I didn' break 'is jaw or somethin'. An' he didn' seem ta remember me doin' it.
B. A. rubbed his face with one hand as he thought about how much trust in him Murdock had displayed during their escape to freedom.
An' he saved Wilson's life by knifin' Ferret. An' my life, killin' that NVA soldier the way he did. I owe this crazy fool a lot.
The medic shifted his position to check the black man's gauze bandage. B. A. motioned toward the man lying on the litter.
"Keep my buddy 'live, sucka. I can wait," he muttered. For a moment the corpsman looked like he would challenge the Sergeant. Then he nodded and returned his attention to the pilot.
"Find a secure place to sit, guys. It might be a roller-coaster of a ride. Next stop, Camp Evans," the pilot shot back at them. He maneuvered the bird upward and sped northeast to the firebase and the 18th Surgical Hospital located there. The entire evacuation had taken less than seven minutes.
oooooo
Hannibal strode away from the building housing the battalion headquarters, cursing under his breath. Not only had his report taken longer than he thought necessary, he was informed none of the patrols this firebase sent out came across the three men he had sent ahead of their group. There were signs that someone strayed from the stream and headed on an easterly trek but whoever that was, they were trying their best to hide their passage. The trail they left went cold.
In a way, the Colonel supposed that should be a comforting bit of news. If the trail was left by Face, Wilson and Heller and a search party could not follow them, neither could the enemy.
But will B. A. be content with that? And what about Murdock? Will he understand?
Hannibal swore again under his breath for the decision he was forced to make. The commanding officer at this firebase didn't condemn him for it.
Hell, he wouldn't have made any different of a decision based upon the circumstances.
He turned the corner of the gray wooden headquarters building and stopped short.
In the center of a circle of well-placed rocks stood a large red-painted wooden object. The Rakkasan.
Outside of the ring of rocks lay a few discarded cigarette butts, the normal debris of an army camp. Inside the circle, the ground was kept in a sacred state of tidiness.
The inverted arch with the two outward curving legs and the cross bar underneath was a symbol for the 3rd Brigade, 187th, 101st Airborne Division. The Japanese regarded it as a symbol for the gateway to honor.
Honor. I thought I knew what the word meant at one time.
Hannibal kept moving past the red symbol with all of its implied meaning toward the last place he had seen both his pilot and his Sergeant taken.
A bitter smile appeared on his face and swiftly disappeared. B. A. had walked to the portable semi-permanent emergency triage building under his own power beside the stretcher which held Murdock. He vehemently refused to be transported in the same manner.
"I'm good ta walk. 'Sides, I gotta stay with him."
Hannibal knew he couldn't command the black man to lie down on a stretcher. All the authority in the world couldn't accomplish that. He had a feeling the medical personnel of the 18th Surgical Hospital already found out how difficult it was to sedate B. A. in order to remove the bullet from his arm.
Not when he was in protection mode over his fallen team mate.
They would find a way. The military always found a way to move mountains when it needed to be done.
At least they won't have as much trouble convincing Murdock to lie still to be treated.
Murdock. He hadn't stirred once during the short ride to Camp Evans nor when the corpsman and the waiting male personnel placed him on the stretcher and hustled him to the preoperative and resuscitation shelter. Hannibal would have followed them if duty in the personage of a Staff Sergeant had not called him to report to the camp commander.
Instead he muttered an angry "Stay with him as long as you can, B. A." and grudgingly followed the messenger.
The thought of all the time spent away from his injured men quickened his pace.
The Colonel knew he would not be allowed access to either of his men until they were out of surgery and in a hospital ward bed.
The 18th Surgical Hospital had been one of those designated to have MUST (Medical Unit, Self-Contained, Transportable) capability.
He frowned at the gray metal buildings which served as surgical suites.
The structures forming the medical "campus" had been brought to Camp Evans by helicopter as shipping containers. Each gray metal container opened up to make a railroad boxcar-like unit. The accordion walls of each box folded out to extend the sides of the structure. Along the bottom of the container were places in which to plug in the essentials to make a suitable operating suite. A turbine engine generator running on any kind of available liquid fuel supplied the electricity for lights, air conditioning and medical devices.
Other containers were assembled to form places for X-rays to be taken, lab specimens to be examined, mass casualties to be triaged.
It was a great improvement over the canvas tents used in other wars for care of the war-wounded. There was a real floor instead of dirt. Sterile conditions were possible.
Hannibal grunted his admiration for the advancements of battlefield medical practice since his stint in the Korean War. But all the progress in the world wasn't going to save Murdock if he had been too late to locate help.
He picked his way to the double-walled aluminum framed inflatable hospital ward and hoped he would not have trouble finding at least one of his men.
Feeling more alone than when he set out to find the army company responsible for the gunfire of the night before, he almost didn't stop at the nurses' station in the front entrance to the ward.
"Hey, wait a minute, soldier!" A young fatigue-clad female Sergeant jumped up from the battered metal desk at which she sat. "You can't just barge in there. May I ask who you are looking for?"
The petite redhead planted herself in front of Hannibal and put her hands on her hips. Any other time the Colonel would have thought the cute nurse was just being efficient but at this moment, she was an obstacle.
"I'm Colonel John Smith, one of the POWs the MedEvac chopper brought in a while ago. I'm looking for my men. Captain H. M. Murdock and Sergeant Bosco A. Baracus." He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.
It isn't this nurse's fault she has to make sure of who is visiting the ward.
A strange look passed over her face. She straightened and saluted. "I'm sorry, sir. I have to know who's going in and out."
Hannibal gave her a weary smile. "I understand, Sergeant. I'm here to see my men if they are both out of surgery. Can you help me?"
"Sergeant Baracus is here but Captain Murdock required an X-ray of his knee before going in to surgery. He was not returned to this ward. If you want me to, I can check the intensive care unit for you." Her face relaxed into one of sympathy and concern.
Hannibal's stomach knotted. "Yes. Please do that. But while you're checking I would like to see my Sergeant."
"Yes sir. Follow me." At that, the nurse turned on her heel and escorted the Colonel to the bedside of one still groggy but also very anxious B. A. Baracus.