Christmas 1969: After Cam Ranh
Chapter 2 Clean
Disclaimer: I do not own The A-Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A-Team.
Face watched as the black Sergeant stopped at the cargo door and leaned in. "What ya think you're doin' . . . " The words died on his lips.
B. A. backed out of the door and continued to stare. He subconsciously unclenched his fists at the sight in front of him.
Face felt his mouth go dry and his guts turn cold. He couldn't speak, not knowing what quenched B. A.'s wrath so quickly and effectively. He forced his feet to move until he stood beside the Sergeant.
"I thought you two would be in the mess hall enjoying your Christmas dinner." The familiar voice was somewhat muffled by the ever-present cigar.
"Colonel?" The Lieutenant stared at his CO who knelt near the door of the Huey on his hands and knees, a scrub brush in one hand and a bucket of soapy water beside him. Murdock was in a similar position on the opposite side of the cabin. As Face watched, the Captain ran his hand over a portion of the floor, muttered something unintelligible and applied his brush to the metal with renewed fury.
The Lieutenant's heart sank. He didn't know which was worse: Murdock in an almost catatonic state or Murdock scrubbing the floor of his chopper like his life depended on it.
Doesn't he know we're here?
Hannibal glanced at the pilot and answered Face's unspoken question with a small shake of his head. For a moment the older man seemed to hesitate. Turning sideways, he touched Murdock's shoulder. "I'll be back to help you finish this up, Captain. I want to talk to Face for a few minutes."
The other man didn't respond but continued to scour the floor and mumble to himself, his gaze on the spot he was cleaning. The Colonel waited for a second, then resignedly patted his shoulder before climbing out the door of the chopper.
"Take over, B. A." Hannibal handed the brush to the Sergeant. The black man numbly accepted it and climbed up into the Huey. After a moment's hesitation and a brief glance at Murdock, the Sergeant began scrubbing where Hannibal left off.
The Colonel grasped Face by the elbow and led him to the rear wall of the revetment.
"Do you mind telling me what's going on, Colonel?" the Lieutenant hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.
"I thought you could tell me. His crew chief came to me. He said Murdock just about bit his head off." Hannibal stood, hands on his hips, cigar in his mouth, keeping his eye on the chopper's side cargo door.
Raising his eyebrows in disbelief, Face looked in the same direction as his CO. "That doesn't sound like Murdock at all. What did Ellison do?"
Hannibal raised a hand to remove the cigar from his mouth. He scrutinized it as he spoke. "Ellison claims he saw Murdock come to the airfield with a package under his arm. He followed him out here to give him a full report on the maintenance work they did. As soon as Murdock looked at the floor of the chopper, Ellison says he got mad and started swearing at him, accused him of slacking in his duties." Hannibal shook his head in puzzlement. When he glanced again at Face, he added, "Ellison thought Murdock had snapped. He reported it to me so I came to have a talk with our pilot and find out what's going on."
"And?" Inwardly, Face groaned, realizing he was right to be uneasy about his buddy's mental state after all.
"When I got out here, Murdock's package was open on one of the seats in the front and he was in the back with that scrub brush and bucket of water, cleaning the floor of the chopper and mumbling to himself." Hannibal rubbed his chin with one hand and glanced at the Huey again. "He doesn't seem to even know I'm here but I thought if I helped him, maybe he'd come out of it."
Face stuffed his hands in the pockets of his fatigues and frowned down at the ground.
Yeah. Normally he would have. But he hasn't been acting like himself since . . .
"Damn it!" Face muttered, raising his head to stare at the tail of the slick.
The older man analyzed his expression before asking the question the Lieutenant knew he was going to ask. "Did Murdock seem bothered by anything in the past couple of days?"
Face sighed and drew his hand through his hair in frustration. "Well . . . Yesterday he was doing ash and trash runs. There was a lot of wounded and dead on Murdock's chopper when he came in the last time. You know him. He wades right in to help. I didn't think it was anything he hadn't handled before . . . " The Lieutenant stopped, suddenly remembering.
Hannibal looked at him sharply. "What was different about it?"
"There was one guy. Murdock was pretty insistent the medics take that kid before any of the others. He singlehandedly dragged him . . . what was left of him . . . " the Lieutenant swallowed hard, "off the chopper. I think he would have carried him to the hospital himself if the medics hadn't stopped him." In spite of the humidity and heat of the day, Face shuddered.
The Colonel puffed on his cigar and waited.
Face was thankful for the time to collect his thoughts. To be truthful, he wasn't sure why that one soldier had affected Murdock the way he did.
"As soon as Murdock cut the engines, you could hear the kid crying and babbling hysterically, not making much sense. I guess I wouldn't either if I knew both of my legs had been blown off from the knees down. Someone had retrieved as much of them as they could find and laid them in the chopper beside him." The Lieutenant shook his head in confusion at the memory. "Maybe they thought the surgeons could somehow piece the kid back together."
Again, the older man waited.
Face wished Hannibal would say something. But it looked as if the Colonel didn't want to rush him.
Maybe I should be glad about that. I'm never going to forget what that kid looked like when I saw him.
"Before Murdock could get him all the way out of the chopper, the kid died. It was like Murdock didn't believe he was dead. He kept yelling for the medics to help him. And when they didn't, he sank down on the ground with that kid in his arms. He didn't move until they came to take the body." The Lieutenant rubbed his eyes with one hand as if the action could erase the memory.
"So who was the kid? Do you know? Did Murdock tell you?" Hannibal kept his voice low.
Face shook his head. "He's hardly said a word since then."
"My guess is that Murdock still sees that soldier's blood on the floor of his chopper and he's trying to scrub it away and maybe the memory with it." Hannibal chewed on the end of his cigar for a moment, considering what had been said. Then he headed toward the cargo door. "So we help him do just that. Maybe if all of us are there, he'll open up and talk about it."
Or maybe not, the younger man thought bitterly as they made their way back to the cabin compartment of the Huey.
As soon as they got there B. A. grumbled, "Don' know what we're doin'. Floor looks clean ta me." Even though Hannibal shot him a warning look, he continued his complaint. "Ain' no way ta spend Christmas Day."
If Murdock heard the mutterings, he didn't respond. The sound of the brush on metal became harsher, the Captain's movements more frantic, his gaze riveted on the spot in front of him.
Face didn't know what made B. A. angrier, whether it was the way Murdock continued to scrub the same spot over and over or the way he seemed not to notice anything but what he was doing. Before any of them could stop him, the Sergeant tossed his brush in the bucket, sloshing water over the side.
Swiveling to look at the pilot, B. A. leaned close to his face and roared, "Floor's clean enough, fool! It's time ta stop!"
The Sergeant's sudden enraged outburst startled Murdock. With haunted eyes he saw B. A.'s scowling face within inches of his. He skittered toward the other open door until he was within inches of falling out of the chopper backwards.
"Watch out!" Face reached out to him on impulse but the Sergeant was in his way.
He didn't know anyone was here. I'm sure of that.
Moving faster than either Face or Hannibal thought he could, B. A. grabbed the pilot by his shoulders and jerked him away from the doorway and the three foot drop to the ground.
Murdock threw his arms up in front of his face instinctively as the black man released him. His breath came in short quick pants as he curled his upper body over his bent legs. He didn't make a sound but sat trembling, his face hidden by his crossed arms.
"That's enough, Sergeant." Hannibal didn't need to say anything. B. A., as surprised as the others with the pilot's reaction, had already backed away to give Murdock space. Face ran his hand through his hair again, not sure the change in his buddy was an improvement over what he had witnessed in the past twenty-four hours.
At least he knows we're here now . . . maybe . . .