Part 63 (1/2)
[SEVEN].
ABOARD NAVAL AIR TRANSPORT SERVICE FLIGHT 203 (MEDICAL EVACUATION) 32.42 DEGREES NORTH LAt.i.tUDE 120.296 DEGREES WEST LONGITUDE THE PACIFIC OCEAN 1630 25 OCTOBER 1950.
Lieutenant Commander Dwayne G. Fisher, USNR, a slightly plump, pleasant-appearing thirty-nine-year-old, came out of the door to the flight deck of the four-engined Douglas C-54 and made his way slowly down the aisle to the rear of the pa.s.senger compartment.
The aircraft was configured to carry litters. There were two lines of them, stacked three high. Almost all of the litters were occupied, and almost all of the injured were Marines. They were all strapped securely to the litters, which had thin inflatable mattresses, olive drab in color, but not unlike the air mattresses used in swimming pools. About one-third of the injured were connected to rubber tubing feeding them saline solutions, pain-deadening narcotics, or fresh human blood, or various combinations thereof.
Commander Fisher stopped at just about every row of litters. Sometimes he just smiled, and sometimes he said things like ”How you doing, pal?” or ”We're almost there. About another hour and we'll be in San Diego.”
Sometimes the injured men replied, if only with a single word or two or a faint smile. Some stared at him without response. Four of the men in the litters were covered with sheets. They had not survived the flight.
At the rear of the fuselage, where they had been loaded last so they could be off-loaded first, were the NPs. The stress of war had been too much for them, and they were headed for the Neuro-Psychiatric Wards of the San Diego Naval Hospital. They had all been sedated, and strapped to their litters more securely.
Commander Fisher stopped at each row of NPs, but they were out of it, and he didn't speak to them, only gave them a little smile.
At the extreme rear of the pa.s.senger compartment was a patient whom Dwayne Fisher wanted to talk to. He was an NP, but the flight physician had told him that was probably just a technical cla.s.sification to get him to the States. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d was a Marine fighter pilot who'd just been rescued after three months behind the enemy's lines.
”He's nothing but skin and bones, but he's not over the edge,” the flight physician had told him.
”Hi!” Commander Fisher said.
What does this a.s.shole want?
”I understand you're also an airplane driver.”
What are you doing, writing a book?
”Guilty.”
”Fighters?”
And also Lockheed 1049s. You are conversing, sir, with the current holder of the Trans-Pacific scheduled pa.s.senger service speed record.
”Corsairs.”
”I flew P-38s in War Two,” Fisher said. ”Which twin-engine time I parlayed into a job with Eastern. Where I flew these. Which kept me out of fighters when they called me up.”
”Reservist?”
Dumb f.u.c.king question. If he was called up, he was in the reserve.
”Yeah. You?”
”Me, too. I was flying for Trans-Global.”
”Ten-forty-nines?”
”That's all Trans-Global has.”
”Nice airplane.”
”Very nice.”
”You were shot down?”
Back to your f.u.c.king book, are we?
”Uh-huh.”
”I'm surprised they didn't grab you for NATS,” Commander Fisher said. ”Most of our guys are called-up airline pilots.”
”They didn't.”
”I just called our ETA-one hour-to San Diego,” Fisher said. ”It's been a long haul.”
It's been a f.u.c.king nightmare.
”It's been a nightmare.”
”Walking down that aisle is tough,” Fisher said. ”The amazing thing is, you don't get complaints.”
Not from the drugged or the dead, I guess you don't.
”A couple of hours out of Honolulu, I went to the head. I saw . . . the sheets. How many didn't make it?”
”I counted four.”
”I guess the rest of us are lucky, huh?”
”From what I hear, you're luckier than most. You were behind the enemy's lines for three months, right?”
”Yeah.”
”And you're walking around. You look like you're in pretty good condition?”
”Yeah. I'm in good condition.”
The way my commanding officer put it, with devastating honesty, Commander, is that I am a self-important sonofab.i.t.c.h whose delicate condition is my own G.o.dd.a.m.n fault. He went on to say that my childish behavior caused a lot of good people to put their necks out to save me from the consequences of my soph.o.m.oric s...o...b..ating.
That should be me under one of those white sheets.
Commander Fisher put out his hand.
”I better get back up and drive the bus,” he said. ”Nice to meet you, Major. Good luck.”
”Thanks.”