TWENTY SEVEN


Dec. 4th: 1130 hours

"Mailing the small parts of the jeep was easy. I just put them in a box and marked them perishable goods. Sending the seats home was a little harder. I had to crate them and mark them as..." The driver of the supply truck was telling his passengers about his escapades. He had been talking, steadily, ever since they had left Kimpo.

Major Winchester looked skyward in appeal. There seemed to be no relief forthcoming, however. The driver didn't seem to mind that no one was answering him. He talked on anyway.

Earlier, Lieutenant MacAllister had tried to carry on a conversation with the man. Deciding that he was happier delivering his soliloquy, she was now sleepily watching the scenery. Abruptly, the woman sat upright. Eyes wide with alarm, she turned so that she could look out the rear window of the truck. Watching their back trail intently, the Texan didn't say anything. Her worried expression told Winchester all he cared to know, however.

Finally, relaxing her vigilant observation, she shuddered, "And this used to be such a good neighborhood."


As they moved into the hospital compound, the driver whistled in surprise. Wounded soldiers were scattered everywhere in front of the hospital building. More were being unloaded off an ambulance bus.

"Look at all those men!" He exclaimed. "And all that blood!"

Dryly, Major Winchester remarked, "Yes. These are the perishable goods we send home." He looked at the woman beside him and sighed, "It appears we've been thrown into purgatory once again, my dear."

"That's for sure and for certain," Sarabeth agreed sadly.

Climbing down from the truck, they hurried to tend to the injured.

Father Mulcahy was kneeling beside a man who was writhing in pain, as Major Houlihan tightened the pressure bandage on the young soldier's leg. Spying the arriving medical personnel, he exclaimed enthusiastically, "Thank God, you're here!"

Concentrating on her task, the blonde-haired woman barely lifted her head to look at the returning officers. "Doctor, they need you in the OR, immediately!"

The surgeon glanced at the men around him. There were several who required medical attention without delay. "I can take care of triage, sir," the charge nurse stated with confidence. Winchester nodded and headed for the tin roofed building.

Houlihan added, "MacAllister, set your gear somewhere and help me with this."

"In a minute, ma'am," the lieutenant replied. The major, glaring at her, started to speak but the redheaded woman quickly explained, "I have to speak to the colonel---about camp security."

Seeing her serious expression, the major relented, "Hurry then."

"Sergeant," MacAllister turned to the officer of the camp guards, "thanks for your help. We really appreciate it. But I need y'all to go back on sentry duty." After his acknowledgement of her instructions, she ran towards the operating room.

The driver of the supply truck tried to catch the senior nurse's attention as she directed the medics from the bus on the arrangement of stretchers for treatment, "Major, I'll unload your supplies and be on my way."

Houlihan shook her head, "You're not going anywhere, buster. You just signed up for hospital duty."

"But, I don't know anything about doctoring..." he protested.

"I'll give you a crash course. Grab that end of the litter," the woman directed.


Holding a surgical mask over her face, Lieutenant MacAllister leaned through the doorway to the operating room. The place was in a state of organized chaos. The surgeons and nurses were working with desperate determination. Corpsmen were moving laden stretchers in and out of the OR. A private, who normally worked in supplies, was boiling instruments. Another was carrying x-rays for the doctors to review. And a fifth surgical table was being set up in the already crowded room.

"Welcome back, Sarabeth," Captain Hunnicutt called to her. "Pick a table. Any table."

"I can't, sir," she answered. "Colonel Potter, I must speak to you, right now."


Fortunately, the senior surgeon was able to leave his patient. After giving directives to his surgical nurse, the commanding officer followed the woman into the outer hallway. "All right, lieutenant. What's the matter?"

"Colonel, seven or eight Chinese soldiers, with rifles and machine guns, crossed the road behind our truck about three-quarters of a mile back. They started to follow us but then turned east towards the hills. I put our guards back on duty; one in the compound and the other three along the perimeter."

"I'll notify HQ," Potter announced calmly even though the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. "How's triage coming? How many people do we have out there?"

"Fourteen, sir. Major Houlihan and I can handle them," MacAllister replied.

"Get them sorted and get inside, as soon as you can," the officer ordered. "Keep quiet about our visitors. And, lieutenant," he asked with a small grin, "did you take care of that little matter?"

Despite her own concern, Sarabeth MacAllister smiled in return. "All bills paid in full, sir. Thank you!" At his dismissal, the nurse paused long enough to pick up a couple of surgical kits and some units of plasma before returning to the bloody scene outside.


Inside his office, waiting for his call to go through, Colonel Potter allowed himself to feel the nervousness he had been suppressing. Four rifles, and a few pistols, in the whole camp, against a squad of machine guns; and he had patients, doctors, nurses, enlisted men and civilians to protect.

He picked up the photograph of his wife of so many years and looked at her smiling face. "Well, Mildred dear, here we go again. Wish me luck."