The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  Maxie shook him. “Wait for what? Those maniacs to kill us all? Can the two on the ground be moved?”

  Irma spoke up: “They can be moved, if we have stretchers.”

  Tom nodded. “You’re right, I guess.” His eyes mirrored disbelief. “But this is America. We’re supposed to be rescued.”

  Maxie pointed at the armed figures scrambling over rubble toward them, 500 yards away if that. “This may be America, but those are idiots.”

  “Here is a stretcher,” Irma called faintly from the hollow in which the wreckage lay.

  “Keep your head down!” Tom yelled, taking command. “You people over there, let’s go, we’re moving out!”

  “Anywhere,” Maxie said, “just away from this part of town.”

  The sight of commandos moving in on them was enough to mobilize the survivors of Flight 1. As they moved away in a group, carrying the two wounded (a nurse and a tech), Maxie could hear the commandos looting the burned helicopter, looking for supplies and medicines.

  Maxie and her small group emerged from the bombed-out block onto more recognizable city streets. In the middle of an intersection they found several city buses, one of them on its side, and a red fire engine whose tires all were flat. The vehicles formed a rough square, and in the middle hunkered a mixed group of emergency workers. On the ground were more wounded. “What’s going on?” Tom asked.

  “You can’t go any further,” a fire captain said. “There’s a civil war or something going on. These Hitlers from Hell are trying to take over, I guess, and the roads are all blocked ahead. These people”--he pointed to the wounded on the ground--”were shot trying to get through. I hear there are more people cut off and just trying to get this far.”

  “We have to set up a triage station,” Maxie said. “Do you have a radio?”

  “Negative, Ma’am,” said a policeman. “We have a few com buttons among us, but none of them are working. We’re totally out of touch.”

  “We have some small arms,” Tom said, “maybe we can break out of here. Bring back help. There must be friendly lines somewhere in the city.”

  “We’ve got shotguns and small arms,” another cop said.

  The fire captain shook his head slowly. “I still have a bullet in me from Gulf II. I never thought I’d be in battle again fighting for my country, least of all in Washington.”

  A policeman in torn uniform hobbled up on a crutch, one leg wrapped in bloody bandages. “I just took a flesh wound, it’s nothing. Keep it wrapped and hope to find some antibiotics. I was a Navy corpsman, Captain. I can help.”

  “Great,” Maxie said. “Do you smoke?”

  “No, Ma’am.” He looked puzzled.

  “Here.” She handed him the $100 cigarettes, which she hadn’t opened yet. “Hold on to these. If anyone needs one, you give ‘em one, okay?”

  “Yes Ma’am!”

  Maxie closed her eyes for a moment. Religion wasn’t something she ever consciously thought about; it was just there, all around. Her family had funded a pew at the chapel at West Point a century ago. Bodleys married, were baptized, and had funerals in the Episcopal church. Bodleys went to religious schools, although some, like Maxie, were expelled for things like experimenting with pot, and went on to other places, but the fact of religion was always there under the surface. Maxie had even as a child known that people forgot about God until they were in severe danger, and she’d considered that hypocritical; so she’d always kept a little reserve back channel available just in case she were on a sinking ocean liner or a plane about to go nose-first into the Himalayas. Now she prayed intently to this old family friend, this old uncle who was just the most powerful and noteworthy of so many Lee and Bodley uncles. After all, with colonels on both sides-- “Oh Lord, now I know why you’ve kept me in luck all this time. There is something you want me to do here, I can feel it in my little old Virginia bones. I guess a person’s never ready to stop playin’, but everyone’s got to go out sooner or later and put some quarters in the meter. This must be it for me. Please, I just met this nice guy here, and--” Her thoughts were cut short as she heard gunfire and shouting.

  A fog of gray smoke drifted constantly among the disabled buses and the fire truck. She caught the acrid, distasteful pungency of expended gun propellant. People were running everywhere. Tom took her by the arm. “Maxie--”

  Instinctively, she smiled and turned so that she fit neatly between his arm and his side. She felt almost as though she wished he would take her away and lay her down to sleep, as if she were a small child. Then she felt how he was trembling, and she realized that she did not have time to be helpless. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “We’re going to be brave, y’hear me?”

  He ran his hand up and down her back. The warmth, the pressure, the friction calmed her. “We’re going to get through this, Maxie.”

  She hugged. “We made it through a chopper crash.” She looked up, dazzled that he was there in her arms. “Do you like me, Tom Dash?”

  He swallowed. “Well, um, like is not the word. I--”

  Her lightness was suddenly replaced by a deadly seriousness, a sickening, toxic stew of fear and loss and imminent death. She tugged. “Say it, man. There isn’t time.”

  “I think I am falling in love with you, Maxie.”

  “So am I. I want you to give me one big old French kiss so bad, but then if I lose you or you lose me, I don’t want us to spend the rest of our life remembering how nice that--”

  Tom bent over and placed his mouth on hers. His tongue touched hers, stifling the words that did not need to be said in any case. She felt his body with her hands, heaping touches of him toward herself as if gathering in what she could, as if she were a crazy lady with a large bag billowing in autumn wind, to gather petals, to store what she could before a long hard winter. She trembled with passion, just for a moment, because then someone with a voice like a drill sergeant bellowed to nobody and everyone who would listen: “I’ve got casualties here!”

  They stepped in out of the mist, a battered, dirtied, scared looking bunch of kids in O.G. uniforms. They carried stretchers with figures on them, and the figures seemed mingled with white sheets and great splotches of claret colored blood, almost happy looking in its brightness. And the wounded, how they cried. Screams came from the fog, from voices grown hoarse but unable to stop. She could clearly hear the mixture of fear and pain.

  “Who are you?” she said stepping in their path.

  A young sergeant said sullenly: “Motor pool unit, Ma’am, active Army. We’re just a supply outfit for staff cars over in Foggy Bottom. Didn’t even have time to draw our own weapons. They trucked us up here and our truck got blown over before we could get where we was goin’.”

  “Fine,” she told him, “bring your wounded in here and lay them in a row over there.” She pointed to a small group of casualties who were already laid out along the fire truck. Irma and another nurse were frantically working on one of them. “Hey, Irma, do you need help?”

  “I.V., stat,” came the reply. “Need units of blood.”

  Tom stepped forth. “I’m useless here, Maxie. I’m going to take a few hale and hardy boys with guns and we’re gonna try and break through. We’ll bring back help.”

  She nodded. “I love you Tom. For that. And for yourself.” She sniffed, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Let’s do what’s got to be done. Bring back supplies, blood, ambulances.”

  He shook his head. “I love you too, Maxie. I don’t think you can get an ambulance in here just now. More like they need to bring in paratroopers and infantry to stop these guys. Right now they’re just throwing cooks, clerks, drivers at them, while bring in regular Combat Arms units.”

  “Go, Tom. God bless.” She hugged him, then pushed away. She watched as he trudged away with one starved afterglance that matched her hunger. She felt like he was tearing something out of her heart.

  Unnoticed, there’d been a whistling sound, accompanied by a rumbling feeling, ki
nd of like a train going by. Suddenly, an explosion tore through the air a block away, rattling the ground. Maxie felt a mild deafness that would not go away. She could hardly hear her own voice as she stepped around, directing people here and there.

  Soon she found herself in an argument with a Marine Corps lieutenant colonel in dress uniform, whose nameplate read Myers. Myers had been in a staff car, headed to a briefing at the Pentagon, when he and his driver had been cut off in a guerrilla ambush and forced to run for their lives. He was a lean, well-exercised man of about 35. He wanted to round up all the intact Army personnel and form a perimeter.

  “What do you normally do, Colonel?”

  “I run a computer lab.”

  “Well, I work in the medical field, sir, and if you try to form up a unit here, you’re going to draw fire down on us. I don’t want that.”

  “Captain, there’s no time to argue!”

  “Just my point.” She waved up the littered street, toward a destination unknown. She shook her head. Looked the other way, toward the foggy oblivion from which the wounded had staggered, and where she could hear light gunfire. “Leave me a few people with side arms and take the rest back there.”

  Myers furiously looked around at the cover afforded by the vehicles. “Captain, goddammit, just this whole setup is going to draw fire.”

  It was a circular argument, they both knew. There was no time.

  “Do what you want,” she said. “This is a field hospital as of now, and I’m in command here. Now either help carry bodies or get the hell out of my way.” She left him standing there and moved on to direct the work of two civilian paramedics who found a box of I.V. supplies in the fire truck. Myers’ words drifted after her: “I’m sorry, Captain, just sorry. If I can help...”

  She snapped back: “Do what I told you. Leave me about four or five men with rifles or side arms and collect who you can. You can form up a perimeter line about a thousand feet away. If you get hit, hold out as long as you can. Retreat slowly if you are overwhelmed. That will buy time and I may be able to get my patients out before the devils overrun this position.”

  “Yes Ma’am!” the colonel said, saluting the captain. He turned and briskly, with new purpose, waved his arms and directed men to form around him. Bewildered, and somewhat sullenly, some did; a few had to be coaxed. Most saw the logic of what they must do.

  Maxie forgot to return the colonel’s salute, because she was surprised at how easy it was to direct people once you had their attention. She barely had time to wonder if the thing she’d told him to do would be a good one. She’d made it up in her head, mainly so he’d go do something and not be a pest. Then again, maybe he was the type of man who, once he’d been given direction, knew exactly what to do.

  Within an hour, the situation changed again. They were still stuck, out of communication, with men and women dying for lack of replacement blood. But now the first doctors appeared. Navy people. One was a young woman, a lieutenant commander, the other an older Afro-American admiral who specialized in urology at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Both were in civilian clothing; they’d been on their way back from a Bible club prayer breakfast in Maryland, had gotten lost because some of the streets were closed, and wound up running for their lives as Colonel Myers had. The gray-haired black gentleman approached, directed to her by various persons, and trailed by the woman. “Hello, I’m Rear Admiral Stintonburger”(so she understood the name through a bunch of shouting and gunfire)”and I wonder if I can help.”

  “Me too, I’m a resident in dermatology.”

  The admiral said: “We’re told there is some fireball nurse in charge up here. We’d like to report in for duty.” He was looking over her head, barely seeming to notice her.

  “That would be me,” Maxie said. “Hell, I’m just a captain. You want to be in charge?”

  “No way,” Stintonburger said with a twinkle. “You seem to have things well organized.”

  “We’re short on everything except casualties,” she told them. “Commander, you organize a triage function. I’ve got to get some more organizin’ accomplished. Admiral, you’re the chief medical officer here.” She saluted, and he tossed one back. She told him: “Anyone gets out of line, you shoot ‘em, y’hear?”

  He saluted again, laughing. “Aye aye, Ma’am.” He and what-was-her-name hurried off to do as she’d told them. Her worst blinding worry right now was the lack of supplies. She called Irma over. It was late afternoon now, and the light was beginning to fade quickly. “Irma, can you get some of these people who are just lightly wounded, and train them? You know, the basics. Stop the bleeding, clear the air passage, do CPR, treat for shock, wrap ‘em and hold ‘em until more can be done?”

  “Sure, Max. You’re doing a great job here.” Irma briefly clasped Maxie’s shoulders with her hands. Irma was no bigger than Maxie, and had a beautiful Filipina face with exotic eyes and smooth butterscotch skin, and thick rich black hair. “You know what it is, Max?”

  “What’s what? I’m hungry.”

  “That too. What’s what is why you’re so intimidating. The flight suit.”

  Maxie looked down at herself. “Yeah, now that you mention it. I always thought this thing was kind of really cool. All these pockets. But then you--”

  “I don’t have the commanding manner,” Irma said grinning. She turned and headed toward a group of wounded men sitting indolently, in shock, around a steaming coffee pot. They’d lit a small fire between some stones. Wouldn’t hurt any, Maxie thought, after briefly considering. Then her attention turned elsewhere. “Food. Where are the cooks here?” Two young men stepped forth. “You guys. I know there is something to eat somewhere nearby. You guys find it and serve it to the rest of us.”

  They looked at each other.

  “It’s better than hanging around. And it’s a direct order. Now march!”

  Time was flying by in the constant hubbub. They were a growing concern, with at least a hundred people of all ages and sizes and in all kinds of uniforms or the lack thereof. After dark, they received a small group of tourists from Japan. Six men and their wives, she figured. Three of the men and one of the women were medical doctors. Maxie made the Sign of the Cross. Their English was reasonable--they were on vacation from Kyoto, they said, and under the circumstances would be glad to help. They were hopelessly lost and cut off from the hotel rooms, one of them said.

  “Honey, that describes just about everyone in Washington today except our friends from hell, who are hopelessly lost and cut off from their minds.” She pointed at new casualties staggering in from the night. “Just grab them as they come. Stop the bleeding, clear the airways, do what you have to do.”

  About mid-evening, four young Navy corpsmen carried in a stretcher. Maxie looked at the man on it and realized it was Colonel Myers. Horrified, she held her hands to her face. She’d sent him out there. She turned to the closest corpsman. “Is he--?”

  “He’s dead, Ma’am. Took shrapnel in the stomach and chest. The other side’s been firing those Long Toms over the city. They’re mostly firing at Rock Creek Park, but every once in a while a round goes astray. Are you Captain Bodley?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did tell me before he died, to warn you, that the hotel soldiers are sending out snipers throughout the city, to harrass and interdict.”

  “Thank you.”

  The body of Myers, and his bearers, disappeared into the night as blur after blur of activity surrounded Maxie. The two cooks she’d sent out had returned with two cooler cases full of freshly made hamburgers and french fries from a fast food restaurant. The place had been closed, the power off, the doors locked, the help run away, but the two cooks had known exactly what do to. She clapped them on the shoulders: “You men have saved the day!”

  One hamburger was about all she could handle right now, and she ate it while directing surgery by lamp light over a young man who had lost most of his left arm. He was in shock. The wound had to be washed out, the arteries sewn up
by the admiral, the stump wrapped in gauze.

  All through the night, Maxie kept thinking of Tom Dash, each time she had a moment to breathe, to think, to be herself. She ached inside, thinking that something might have happened to him.

  The Japanese decided to try their way out. Another Japanese tourist had come along, a senior honcho with a big car manufacturing company. He’d spoken authoritatively about getting to the Japanese embassy and that it was not too far away.

  As the night grew late, there seemed to be a lull. Occasional rounds still poured in over their heads, in the direction of the Composite at Rock Creek Park. Small arms fire rattled irregularly in the city, but the intervals were longer. Maxie sat with Irma, sharing coffee that the two cooks had made especially for them. An Army Infantry sergeant had just arrived to have a bullet removed from his side. He sat with them, a sandy-haired man of indeterminate age. Battle, Maxie figured, seemed to put a patina on everyone, especially the men, so they all looked dirty and tired and unshaven. Their hair was short and mussy and ranged from dirty brown to dirty black, with the occasional dirty blond thrown in. “Do you ladies know if we’re gonna get rescued here?” he asked softly, looking strained in his bandages. He had a field jacket draped loosely over his otherwise bare upper torso, while his lower half wore boots and fatigue pants.

  Maxie shook her head, looking at the sky. While it remained foggy on the ground, the sky was clear in patches, but mostly it was filled with big bruised billowing clouds the color of ashes. “I keep thinking a whole bunch of parachutes will suddenly float down. Paratroopers, to save us.”

  The sergeant shook his head as he accepted a bit of coffee from Irma. “Well, Ma’am, I think those fat old generals don’t want to lose their best troops, if you see what I mean. First place, how’d they know if they send in a battalion of guys, that they won’t turn and go over to the other side? Second, if you got troops you know is loyal, you wait, you don’t just throw them at the problem, you wait until daylight and check it out from the air and plan your next chess move. I’ll bet them boys in the park is all pulled out right now. Them satan-soldiers are lobbing artillery at a bunch of empty tents. All them good reserve troops is just holding the line until they can bring in some fresh regulars from places like Fort Riley and Fort Campbell, not to mention Fort Hood and Fort Polk, places like that. And Marines from Camp Lejeune and Camp Pendleton. That’s gonna take a few days, and meanwhile we’s out here swingin’ in the breeze.”