Joint Task Force #4: Africa

by David E. Meadows

  He looked up in the direction he was heading. Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson had to be within a mile. But between him and them were those boy warriors. Razi rubbed his chin, rough stubble scratching his palm. His beard grew fast, so if he was feeling stubble, it had to be nearing twenty-three hundred. Razi pulled the left sleeve back. His watch showed 10:50 on it. He wasn’t far off. Over twelve hours they’d been out here? When did they bail out? They were airborne about 0800 hours: one hour flying time to get on track; and, about an hour later Razi was kicking his feet in open air. Something had to be wrong. They couldn’t have been out here that long? He pulled the sleeve down and pulled the Velcro strip tight across his wrist. He did the same for the other one.

  “Damn,” he said, opening his legs wide, unzipping the bottom half of the flight suit. Razi reached inside, shoved his hands down into his khaki trousers, and tugged the boxer-short skivvies away from his skin. “Wet,” he mumbled, thinking crotch rot. “But, that’s why we have corpsman and medical miracles like crotch-rot cream.”

  He pulled his hand out, at the same time lifting his head. What in the hell was he doing talking to himself? He didn’t know if those boy warriors were still moving or, maybe, they had gone to ground for the night. If still moving, then he’d stumble into them if he weren’t careful. If gone to ground, Razi knew they’d be somewhere near the path, watching, ready to shoot his ass when he meandered by— not even caring that he might have crotch rot.

  He closed the zipper. By tomorrow, he was going to be “one sore puppy” down there. But, by tomorrow night, he, Rockdale, MacGammon, and Carson would be back home. When he went to zip up the survival vest, his hand touched the survival radio. He hadn’t used it since the EP-3E departed the area hours ago. What if they had mounted the rescue, already had his men, and he hadn’t had his turned on to hear it all? He was surprised to discover that it didn’t bother or worry him that something like that could have happened. What he did know was that his shipmates would never leave him behind, so if his three sailors were home drinking hot soup chased down by several six-packs, he’d be with them soon enough.

  Razi pulled the radio out, reached to turn it on, and stopped. It was still on. He shook it and turned up the volume, relieved when he heard static come out of it. His head jerked up and Razi turned the radio down, but not off. Somewhere out there were armed boys. Even if he heard a rescue effort ongoing, there was no way they could rescue him before tomorrow morning. Too dark to see, and how in the hell would he find a rescue harness from a helicopter in the jungle? He couldn’t even see his flight boots.

  “HIS LEG IS BROKEN,” ROCKDALE SAID FROM WHERE HE squatted over Carson. They were never going to get out of here, and Carson was going to die.

  “He’s unconscious, so he can’t feel it,” MacGammon said, walking up behind Rockdale.

  Rockdale stood and pushed MacGammon, sending the smaller, but stockier sailor falling backward. “Shut the fuck up!”

  MacGammon pushed himself up with both hands, crouched, and ran at Rockdale. “I warned you, asshole!” He hit Rockdale with his shoulder, knocking the breath out of him. “I warned you.”

  The two men rolled against a bush, long, sharp briars ripping through their flight suits, drawing long streaks of blood where they pierced the skin. Pain sliced down Rockdale’s cheeks as he rolled face-down through the briars. He slammed an elbow backward, striking MacGammon upside the head, and knocking the stouter sailor off of him.

  “You could have killed him! I told you to wait!” Rockdale screamed as he flipped over onto his butt and sat up, the fight gone out of him.

  MacGammon shook off his daze and jumped, knocking Rockdale over again. He pinned Rockdale with both knees, one on each shoulder of the taller sailor’s arms. “And, he would have died if we hadn’t gotten him down when we did,” he said through clenched teeth.

  MacGammon leaned forward and grabbed Rockdale’s ears. “Listen to me, you little Maryland do-gooder. This ain’t downtown Columbia or the tourist district of Annapolis. This is the mother fucking jungle. There ain’t no one here but us, and we don’t have time to hold group gropes and sing Kumbaya. All we have time for is to survive.”

  Rockdale felt the pressure from MacGammon’s knees lessen. He twisted, freeing his right arm. Rockdale rolled to the left, throwing MacGammon off him. “You stupid fuck!” he shouted.

  MacGammon pushed himself up. Rockdale stood.

  MacGammon circled to the right, his legs never crossing, his arms held out to the side. In that split second of watching MacGammon move, Rockdale knew that here was a man who could or would kill him if necessary.

  Rockdale dropped his arms. “You could have waited until I got positioned. We might have been able to get him down without breaking his leg.”

  MacGammon straightened. Rockdale could tell MacGammon was weighing whether to attack or stop. He should never have started this. Not against a person who’s entire life had been one of survival.

  “Stop, Mac,” he said. “You were probably doing what—”

  “Rocky, you’re an asshole, you know. If you don’t do it your way, then it’s the highway.” MacGammon dropped his arms and straightened. He shook his head. “We don’t know if Stetson broke his leg when he came through the trees or when I cut him down. You just naturally assume if I’m involved, then worst case.”

  A moan broke through their argument.

  “He’s still alive and he’s down. We got him down. It may not have been the most gracious way of exiting the trees, but he’s down. Now, go look at that leg and at his head. You’ve had that Red Cross training shit; I slept through most of it. Besides, it ain’t that leg what’s keeping him unconscious. Take his helmet off.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Rockdale replied, turning toward Carson.

  “Wow! There’s something for the record books, ‘Hey, guys, guess what I have to tell you. MacGammon was right about something. Amazing ain’t it?’ I want to be there when you say that.”

  Rockdale squatted beside Carson.

  The man’s eyes fluttered. “Water.”

  “He wants water,” Rockdale said.

  A hand came over his shoulder, holding a pint of water. “Of course, he wants water. Here, give him mine. With the rain we get here, none of us are going to die of thirst.”

  “Here give me a hand.”

  MacGammon stepped around Rockdale and lifted Carson’s head. Rockdale held the water bottle to the injured man’s lips and tilted it slightly so water slipped into Carson’s mouth.

  “He’s swallowing,” Rockdale said, watching Carson’s Adam’s apple bob. Rockdale leaned closer, watching the water trickle into the man’s mouth. He didn’t want to pour too fast for fear of choking Carson.

  “I wouldn’t give him too much. Don’t want him throwing up.”

  Rockdale drew the bottle away as MacGammon gently laid the man’s head back down. “Let’s get his helmet off.”

  “And let’s find a better place to spend the night than here. I think a little higher ground would be better,” MacGammon said, pointing toward the tree he had just climbed down. “Up there should be okay.”

  Rockdale unsnapped the flight helmet.

  “On second thought, I’d leave that on until we get him moved.”

  Rockdale looked questioningly at MacGammon.

  “If he’s got something broke or out of line in his neck or head, then the helmet is kind of like a brace.”

  “Should we move him with this leg?”

  MacGammon lower lip pushed against the upper. A few seconds passed before he spoke. “Guess you’re right this time, Rocky. I guess we’re going to have to cut the leg of his flight suit and check it.”

  “Let’s hope the bone hasn’t pierced the skin.”

  “Nope. I don’t think it has. We’d see blood, wouldn’t we?”

  A few minutes later, the left leg of the flight suit had been cut open from the ankle to only a few inches from the hip. Carson’s left foot was turned awk
wardly to one side. Above the ankle, a large raised bump showed where the bone had snapped. The skin had turned a dark blue where the bone poked upward from below. The knee faced straight up in an awkward direction from where Carson’s left foot now pointed. Above the knee a second bump, the same size of the one near the ankle, identified a second break.

  “I don’t see where the bone has pierced the skin.”

  “Told you, didn’t I, Rocky. No blood—no pierced skin. It’s a little something you learn when you live in a neighborhood where bullets are a common neighbor.” MacGammon dropped a small tube of anti-bacterial ointment beside Rockdale. “That’s good for you. Your face is a mess. You’ll need this.”

  All they had for cuts was anti-bacterial ointment, and Rockdale didn’t think that would be too effective against a large wound. Rockdale rubbed the ointment over his face as the two sailors studied their shipmate. Carson’s breathing seemed normal to Rockdale, but only two things could be keeping him unconscious—head injury or pain. Or both.

  Rockdale screwed the top back on the tube and shoved it into one of his flight-suit pockets. He reached forward and touched the bump above Carson’s knee. “What do you think?”

  “I think—” MacGammon started, then suddenly stopping. “Christ! I don’t know what I think. This leg of his is one busted piece of shit.”

  “Thank you, Doctor MacGammon,” Rockdale said, his voice tight. They had better be rescued soon. He didn’t think he could tolerate more than a night with this doofus.

  “Don’t try to be funny. You’re going to have to straighten it, and hope when you do that the bones inside the leg don’t cut through an artery or a vein.” MacGammon turned and started away. “I’ll go find three or four limbs we can use for splints while you straighten it.”

  “What do you want me to do? I can’t straighten this leg on my own. You’re going to have to help.”

  MacGammon finally nodded and shrugged, “Okay, but let me find something for splints before you do it. I think you should stay here and make sure he doesn’t decide he wants to turn over or something.”

  Rockdale agreed.

  “The other thing you can do is decide how we are going to turn this leg to straighten it without doing more damage.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t straighten it,” Rockdale said, his voice louder. “Maybe we should leave it as it is and strap it down that way.”

  MacGammon shook his head back and forth several times slowly. “Man, I don’t know. You know, as long as Stetson is out cold like this, it don’t matter which way his leg is pointed, but eventually he’s going to surface and when he does, you can bet that leg is going to be one humongous pile of pain.”

  Rockdale sighed and took a deep breath. He looked up at MacGammon. “Go get some splints. I’m going to unlace his flight boots. We’ll use his laces to hold the splints in place.”

  “We can use the straps from the parachute.” MacGammon pulled his survival knife out. “I’ll cut them off and bring them back with me. Leave his flight boots alone. At least they help hold some of his leg straight.”

  “We’ll need to take off the one on the broken leg.”

  “I don’t think so. He may have broken feet, also. I’d leave his helmet, his boots, and his gloves on until we move him and do a better check on him. The flight boots act like casts. Even if we don’t take them off, we’re going home tomorrow. Let the docs do it. That’s why they get the big bucks and get to wear white uniforms.”

  Several minutes later MacGammon returned, carrying several long sticks. With the exception of one, the other five had been on the ground a long time. The two men sorted, argued, and measured each one against Carson’s leg before cutting them, as near equal length as a survival knife would allow. Rockdale and MacGammon decided four sticks would be enough to hold the leg steady. After all, they kept telling each other when they agreed on a decision, tomorrow they’d be going home, and Navy doctors could have their shipmate. As long as Stetson was breathing, the two couldn’t do anything wrong.

  The two men sat back, wiped sweat from their eyes, and discussed the pros and cons on whether to set the leg or not. For thirty minutes, they weaved through the argument of either leaving it alone, or trying to set it, until finally they decided, with Carson still unconscious, that they’d follow the rules learned in Survival, Escape, Evasion, and Rescue school. They’d set it as best they could.

  “We’re going to have to turn on our flashlights, Rocky, to do it.” MacGammon looked around the area where they sat around the prone Carson. “Another few minutes, and we ain’t gonna be able to see anything.”

  Rockdale nodded. He had the task of turning the leg. The kneecap was upright, so the committee of two decided the upper leg break was okay. They’d leave it alone because it appeared properly aligned with the knee, but the break above the ankle was another story. The foot angled about forty-five degrees to the left. The only reason Rockdale could give for why the foot wasn’t completely turned around and pointing backward was that the ground prevented it.

  “You think it’s a clean break?” he asked MacGammon.

  “Man, any bone broken ain’t clean. It’s jagged. Ever seen a broken animal bone? They don’t break even either. All we can do is try to line up the foot with the knee and hope when we get home tomorrow, we ain’t screwed him up too much.”

  With MacGammon holding Carson by the shoulders, Rockdale settled down on his haunches, the toes of his boots digging into the ground under his buttocks. He grabbed the left flight boot.

  “You know you’re going to have to pull down and then turn, don’t you?”

  Rockdale nodded and released the boot. He licked his dry lips and wiped the sweaty palms on the knees of his flight suit.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Rockdale pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. “I’m scared, Mac. What if I do something wrong?”

  “If you do something wrong, then stop and do it right. Look, Rocky, grab the boot by the heel and toe. Stetson’s unconscious. He ain’t gonna know whether you did it right the first time. He ain’t gonna know shit until he wakes up.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You grab that boot. One hand under the heel and the other grabbing the toe. Then, I’m gonna count to three. When I hit three, don’t even think about it, you pull down and twist that boot to the left. When the toe of the boot is lined up with the knee, hold it there.”

  Their eyes locked in the faint light.

  “Of course, you may have to push up on it for a moment so the bones connect again,” MacGammon said, his voice low.

  Rockdale leaned back on his legs. He took several deep breaths, his eyes locking with MacGammon’s, who winked at him. “You can do it.”

  Rockdale nodded, leaned forward, and grabbed the boot.

  “One, two, three! Now!”

  Rockdale jerked down and twisted. Carson screamed, knocking MacGammon aside as his upper torso rocketed up at the waist. Startled, Rockdale fell backward, releasing the flight boot. MacGammon, on all fours, scrambled back, grabbing Carson by the shoulders. When the breath ran out, the screaming stopped, and the injured man collapsed back into MacGammon’s hands.

  “Grab the foot!” MacGammon shouted as he eased Carson back to the ground. “I’ve got him!” MacGammon shouted, pressing down on Carson’s shoulders.

  “You got him?” Rockdale shouted, reaching forward and holding the boot steady.

  “Check that leg. Make sure it’s straight from the foot to the hip.”

  “It’s straight,” he said sharply. Keeping one hand on the boot toe, Rockdale crawled to Carson’s left side. He ran his free hand up his friend’s leg, rubbing it over every inch. He couldn’t talk. His throat was constricted. At any moment, Rockdale was afraid he was going to cry. What if he’d killed him? What if twisting the leg, ripped an artery or vein in half? What if he killed Carson without meaning to? Maybe they should have left the leg alone.

  MacGammon released Carson’s sh
oulders and scrambled on all fours to the other side of the aircrewman. He moved alongside the leg, tossing a couple of parachute straps to Rockdale. “Come on. You can let go of the boot. That leg ain’t gonna move. Let’s get these splints set before Stetson plays Tarzan again.”

  Ten minutes later the splints were set and tied.

  Rockdale fell over to the side, his right arm holding him up as his hip rested on the ground.

  “Looks okay to me,” MacGammon said, sitting back on his haunches.

  Rockdale nodded. “I hope he’s okay,” he said, his voice low and trembling.

  “Well, whatever you did, it’s over with. Carson’s back out of it again. Man, did that scare the shit out of us or what! One moment Stetson’s out of it with only a moan here and a moan there, as if he wants to make sure we know he’s alive, and the next he’s screaming like a trapped bobcat. You should have seen your face.”

  Rockdale pushed himself upright. “I thought I had killed him.”

  “Naw, man. Dead men don’t scream. Live ones do. And the less hurt they are, the more they scream.” MacGammon stood, brushed off the seat of his flight suit, and walked to the tree he had climbed down earlier. “We can’t rest, Rocky. While he’s out we need to move him.” He walked back to where Carson lay. “Come on, give me a hand. Help me clear away the debris over there near the tree, and then we’ll roll out the parachute.”