by Jack Terral
Punzarron turned and set up a fast pace across the savannah, his patrol eagerly falling in behind him.
.
VILLAGE OF CARIDAD
1000 HOURS LOCAL
WHEN the Petroleo Colmo helicopter dropped off Hospital Corpsman James Bradley, he was met by a concerned duo. Milly Mills, leader of Charlie Fire Team, and the Reverend Walter Borden greeted the African-American SEAL, wasting no time in escorting him toward a but on the far side of the village. Milly introduced James and the minister as they hurried through the people who had gathered to see the appearance of the medical technician who would tend to the sick boy.
"Tell me about my patient:' James said.
"He's a three-year-old boy," Milly explained. "I took a look at him myself, and even I could tell the kid is in real serious shape, James. Personally, I don't think the little guy is gonna make it."
"We don't know what's wrong with him," Reverend Borden said. "For the past three days he has had a high temperature that we have been unable to lower."
"What sort of medication have you given him?" James asked.
"We have no medicines," Reverend Borden said. "The mother has been bathing him with cool water."
James was shocked that anyone would bring a group of people out into the wilds without a good medicine chest but kept his thoughts to himself. He would have to take the time to give some rudimentary medical, sanitation and first aid instruction to the villagers as soon as possible.
When they reached the hut, they found the baby's father waiting for them. He took the three visitors inside where the little boy lay on a cot. The mother, a small, thin, dark woman, looked up hopefully as James set his medical kit down. He gave the child a cursory examination.
"Has the boy been urinating regularly?" James asked, reaching into his kit for an ear thermometer.
"No," Reverend Borden answered since the parents did not speak English. "Only a little, and it's been dark in color."
"Right," James said. He noted the dry skin and sunken eyeballs as he looked the boy over. "He's badly dehydrated." He pulled the thermometer from the ear, noting a temperature of 101 degrees. The first thing he had to do was to bring the fever under control as fast as possible. Since the boy was semiconscious and unable to take aspirin, the only alternative was alcohol baths. He pulled a bottle of alcohol from his kit along with some sterile cloths in sealed packets. As he opened up a couple, he gave instructions that the mother should dampen the cloths and gently bathe her son. The Reverend Borden translated the directions, and the woman eagerly began the treatment.
Since the little patient could not take fluids by mouth to treat the dehydration, James set up an IV to administer a saline solution. In order not to over rehydrate the boy and send him into shock, the SEAL decided to give him no more than 1.5 cubic centimeters of the solution over the next twenty-four hours.
Reverend Borden watched the proceedings. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
James inserted the needle into the boy's arm. "I could use a hand from the Lord, Reverend."
"I'll organize a prayer vigil right now," Borden said. He went outside to gather his flock.
Milly Mills looked down at the sick youngster, not liking what he saw. "What's his chances, James?"
James spoke in a low tone of voice. "Slim to none, Milly."
.
OA, SOUTHWEST
2300 HOURS LOCAL
SENIOR Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins had taken his SAW gunner Joe Miskoski along with Gutsy 01-son's Delta Fire Team out to scour the savannah in that part of the OA. The mission was to search out any targets of opportunity. They left base camp early that morning just as the first light of dawn had glimmered over the eastern horizon. Each member of the patrol carried a couple of days' rations and plenty of ammunition.
Now, after hours of steady humping, they had settled down for the night. It was a cold camp with no fire or flashlights. If anyone really needed to look for something, he had to turn to his night vision goggles. All heating of MREs would be done via the FRHs. Gutsy organized the night's watch, setting up a two-hour-on and four-hour-off guard rotation that would take them to 0500 hours the next morning.
Senior Chief Dawkins hated to admit it, but there were times when he felt his advanced age of thirty-seven. Twinges from long-ago parachute jumps, muscles that had been pulled in training, and an old shrapnel wound in his left side bothered him with increasing frequency. It all made him wonder how much longer he would be able to go until the ability to lead men in the field faded away in a combination of age and growing physical disability. The thought of such a thing happening troubled him deeply. There were times in the middle of the night when he was in that twilight between wakefulness and slumber that the possibility of becoming a staff weenie brought him to full consciousness. The worst part of it was having to part company from the greatest guys in the world.
As he sat in the darkness, leaning against his rucksack, he studied the men around him there in the Gran Chaco. He knew Joe Miskoski and Gutsy Olson well from previous missions. Petty Officer Second Class Andy Malachenko and Petty Officer Guy Deveraux, while new acquaintances, were becoming more familiar to him.
Andy had been born in the Soviet Union, coming to America with his parents in 1994. The family settled into the Russian emigre community in Brighton Beach, New York, where he quickly learned English and adapted to his new country. The naturally rugged kid joined the Navy for adventure and travel and was attracted to the machismo of the SEALs. Guy Deveraux's French-Canadian great-grandparents came to the U. S. in the 1920s. He was born and raised in rural Maine, spending his boyhood fishing and hunting in the woods of the Pine Tree State. He always had a fascination for the sea from the rare glimpses he got of it when his family visited the coast. He enlisted in the Navy but found out he wasn't fond of shipboard life. The SEALs offered a rather challenging alternative, and he opted to take a chance.
Dawkins was more than just a little proud and approving of his Second Assault Section. The men in both fire teams had meshed into a damned fine outfit, and if the group were destined to be his last combat command, he would go out in a flash of glory.
.
VILLAGE OF CARIDAD
14 DECEMBER
0230 HOURS LOCAL
JAMES Bradley got up off the floor of the but and walked over to examine his little patient in the lantern light. The boy's parents slept on cots on the far side of the dwelling. Both were exhausted from worry over their only child, and James had to gently demand that the woman get some rest after long periods of giving her son alcohol baths.
The boy fussed a little in his sleep when James inserted the ear thermometer. The temperature had dropped to ninety-nine degrees, but it was still much too high for a youngster. The hospital corpsman checked the physical appearance of the child, noting that he had shown no response to the saline solution. It would be better to catheterize him to make an accurate observation of his urine output, but James did not have a catheter in his medical kit. A noise from the door caught his attention, and James turned to see the entire Charlie Fire Team tiptoeing into the hut.
"How's the little feller doing?" Milly asked.
"So-so," James replied.
Pech Pecheur, a Cajun from Louisiana, peered down at the sleeping youngster. "He don't look too good, James."
"I have to tell you," James said, "I'm not too confident of a recovery. God only knows how long he's really been sick before anybody around here took note of it."
Wes Ferguson from Wichita, Kansas, had participated in Reverend Borden's prayer vigil. Although not outwardly religious, this private individual attended chapel regularly back in Coronado. "He's in God's hands, James. Just do your best to help things along."
The quartet of tough SEALs stood in silence, gazing down at the little boy who clung to life by that proverbial thread.
.
OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION
0500 HOURS LOCAL
the small bivouac, then walked o
ver to Senior Chief Buford Dawkins and nudged him. Dawkins sat up immediately, wide-awake and ready to go. Guy continued on to the other SEALs, roughly shaking them awake.
"Drop your cocks and grab your socks," he growled at the group. He was a little cranky from having to listen to them peacefully sleep while he stood the last two hours of watch.
Chow that morning was granola energy bars and water from the canteens. Dawkins got on the AN/PRC-126 and raised Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. The contact was expected, and Frank Gomez informed the senior chief that his orders for the day were to continue his patrol's mission until midafternoon before turning back.
Dawkins got to his feet as he shoved the handset back into its carrier. "All right, people. Off and on."
.
VILLAGE OF CARIDAD
0730 HOURS LOCAL
HOSPITAL Corpsman James Bradley learned that his small patient's name was Joselito and that he had been born and raised in the poorest slum of La Paz, Bolivia. The boy was now awake and fussing softly, showing a healthy displeasure about everything that was going on. The mother and father watched anxiously as James took his temperature one more time. The smile on the SEAL's face after reading the digital readout showed it was normal.
By the time Reverend Borden came in for his morning visit, James had determined that Joselito was recovering nicely from the dehydration. Spittle had formed around his mouth, and his tongue was bright pink and moist. James poured a little water from his canteen into a plastic cup given him by the boy's mother. Joselito took a couple of small gulps and easily swallowed them. The liquid did not come back up. Then he demonstrated one of the most solid evidences of being rehydrated; he suddenly peed a beautiful stream of clear liquid. It wasn't much, but it meant he was well on his way back to normal.
James glanced up at Borden. "Tell the parents that Joselito will be fine by tomorrow."
When Borden gave them the good news, the mother rushed forward and grabbed James's hand. She kissed him, weeping and exclaiming her unending gratitude in Spanish. The father embraced him, crying uncontrollably as he expressed how much he appreciated the African-American's kindness. James didn't understand a word, but he caught the meaning clearly and fully. He was actually embarrassed by their worshipful and emotional appreciation. As far as he was concerned, he had simply logically and properly administered a treatment according to what he had been taught in premed and corpsman's school.
He smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat, speaking to Reverend Borden. "Tell them to give the little guy small sips of water about every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day." Then he added, "But not too much at a time. He could get very sick if he drank a lot. If he gets hungry, he can have some soup. But no solid food for at least a couple of days. Okay?"
James quickly packed up his medical kit before he had to endure any more parental thankfulness for saving the toddler's life.
.
OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION
0900 HOURS LOCAL
GUY Deveraux was on point, moving steadily through the thick grass of the savannah, when he spotted the seven men in column a couple of hundred meters away. They were moving at an angle toward him. He suddenly dropped to his knees, whispering into his LASH, "Unknown formation.
Two hundred meters at two o'clock. Moving toward eight o clock?'
"Roger," came back Senior Chief Dawkins's voice. "Check 'em out careful. They might be Bolivian. We sure as hell don't want to piss off the local government by shooting up some of their soldiers."
Guy raised his binoculars to his eyes, immediately catching sight of the red, black, red insignia on their sleeves. "These are bad guys. They got that Falangist doodad sewn on their uniforms:'
"Can you figure out a good point of contact?" Buford asked.
"Yeah," the point man answered. "I'll pull back and get with you guys."
He stayed down, turning to crawl back through what cover the grass offered.
.
FALANGIST PATROL
SUBOFICIAL Adolfo Punzarron still stayed on point like he had done the day before. He wanted to be the one to spot any potential enemies so that he could quickly organize an attack. The patrol followed a small creek that went less than a meter deep, running in a straight line across the grasslands. It would be a handy place to use for cover in case of attack.
The patrol moved at a steady pace, each man carefully maintaining vigilance in the direction of his field of fire. If this had been a couple of weeks earlier, they would have been panting and stumbling, but now they trekked on easily, sweating more from the heat than fatigue.
Suddenly incoming fire raked the formation, and one of the Falangists jerked violently before toppling to the ground.
"Ponense a cubierto!" Punzarron bellowed.
The men jumped down into the creek, using the banks for cover as they returned fire toward the source of the attack.
.
THE FIREFIGHT
JOE Miskoski, working the SAW, pumped out heavy fire with instinctively regulated pulls on the trigger while Guy Deveraux and Andy Malachenko leaped up and charged toward the enemy. Bullets from the Falangists clipped the air around them, and they dove to the ground. The pair now fired three-round automatic bursts as the rest of the SEALs got to their feet and rapidly advanced forward to join them.
.
PUNZARRON and his men were able to stand up in the knee-deep water, leaning forward on the creek bank. They fired overlapping patterns of salvos at the enemy who appeared, disappeared and reappeared as they closed in.
"Los hijos de chingadas are using fire-and-maneuver!" Punzarron bellowed over the sound of the shooting, knowing the attackers were at a disadvantage because of being on open ground. "As soon as any. show themselves, turn your fire on them!"
.
THE SEALs made two more attempts to close in, but the incoming . was so heavy they were quickly pinned down. Dawkins growled into his LASH, "Press your bellies to the dirt! Any casualties?"
"Negative, Senior Chief!" Gutsy Olson, the fire team leader, reported.
"All right!" Dawkins said. "Now hear this! Don't fire, and don't make any sound. They'll think we all have been hit or hauled ass:'
.
VILLAGE OF CARIDAD
1330 HOURS LOCAL
THE entire population of the small community watched the bright red Petroleo Colmo Gazelle helicopter come in for a landing. James Bradley, holding onto his medical kit, had now endured the everlasting gratitude of everybody in the village. He had never gotten so many friendly embraces in his life. He didn't mind the women so much, but the crushing bear hugs of the men were beginning to tell after he'd endured several dozen.
Little Joselito was in his mother's arms, completely bewildered by all the hullabaloo. He didn't realize he had even been sick, much less at death's door; all he knew was that he felt a lot better now than he had for the past few days. He also was unaware that the man everyone was giving so much attention to had saved his life.
When the chopper touched down, Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan stepped out. He walked up and took Milly Mills's salute, then was introduced to the Reverend Walter Borden. The minister gripped Brannigan's hand, shaking it with great feeling.
"You and your men are truly a blessing bestowed on us by the Good Lord above!" he cried. "You have brought us food and clothing and medicine, but above all, you brought us that most precious commodity: hope! The good doctor James saved a life, and all these grateful people look upon it as a sign that we will do more than simply survive. We shall grow and prosper in this community we have built for ourselves."
"I'm glad we could lend a hand," Brannigan said, having been apprised of James's good deed over the AN/PRC126.
"We were in very bad shape," Borden admitted. "And we are all city folks, so none of us are expert in living off the land. Now, thanks to the seed you sent us, our gardens shall blossom properly and provide even more food for us."
"I'm real happy things are starting to pick up for you,"
Brannigan said, feeling awkward in the barrage of gratitude.
"We are more than happy to help you in your struggle," Borden said. "I abhor war, but you are such good men, I know your cause must be worthy and blessed by God."
"We appreciate your offer of help," Brannigan said. He turned to Milly. "Take your fire team off and do some patrolling. All around this village. Get back here within an hour, and we'll take you back to your assault section." He grabbed James's arm, pulling him toward the chopper. "Let's get the hell out of here."
The villagers cheered as the two climbed into the chopper, glad to escape all the disconcerting love being showered on them.
.
FIREFIGHT
1400 HOURS LOCAL
THE Falangist patrol had been waiting, silent and sweating, for four hours with no movement to their front. Punzarron, as patient in battle as he used to be when setting up an armed robbery in his native Portugal, had kept his men quiet. Now, although there had been no sign or sound of movement to the front, he was convinced the attackers were gone.
"We are going to advance," he called out to his five surviving men. "The skulking bastards have crawled away on their bellies like the cobardes--the cowards--that they are."
At his command, the patrol pulled themselves out of the creek and stood up on the bank. Bursts of fire swept across them, and two men tumbled to the grass. Cursing and snarling, the Falangists leaped back into the cover of the narrow waterway. Of the pair of casualties, one lay still in death while the other moaned softly with a belly wound.
* * *
"NOW hear this," Senior Chief Buford Dawkins whispered over the LASH. "Start easing back, but stay alert. I don't expect them to chance exposing themselves again, but they're prob'ly really pissed off at us."
Dawkins would have liked to stay and bring the fight to a more satisfying conclusion, but there was a strong possibility that the Falangists might have called for reinforcements. That was a luxury the Americans did not have.
The SEALs surreptitiously, quietly, slowly and stealthily hauled ass.
Chapter 9
