THEY CALLED HIM DOC

With every rhythmic beat of his heart, his pulsating blood was being pumped from the jagged open wound in his groin. He felt the warmth of its wetness as it spread through his torn jungle greens and his eyes saw it spurt out onto the entangled mass of foliage around him. He finally watched as the redness of it was diluted and washed away in the paths of the monsoonal rains.
His mind, already in a state of shock, could not initially comprehend what had happened. The noise of the battle was still ringing through the air: men shouting, Armalite rifles firing, gunners cursing as they continually fed the demanding M 60's, hungry for ammunition; the groans of the trees as they were hit by rocket-propelled grenades, and the splintering sound as their branches fell through the air and crashed to the jungle floor; the brilliant colours of the tracers as they arched up into the bleak and moist monsoonal sky, landing further up the hill on which men were fighting for their lives and countries.
He was aware of all this happening around him. The knowledge that he had been hit slowly penetrated his shocked mind; with that knowledge came a sudden gasping awareness of agonising pain that caused him to scream out and begin to clutch frantically at his wound.
Five yards away his mate could hear his cries for help. Pushing his SLR before him, he crawled towards him, regardless of the partial exposure of himself to the enemy, he made his way to the aid of his mate. Grabbing the pressure pack from his own webbing, he tore it open and hastily applied it to the gaping and bloodied hole.
" Doc, Doc " wad passed from one soldier to another, until the man bearing that name heard and responded.
Calling, "I'm coming, I'm coming" he to mad his way to the wounded man. The Doc was also aware of the noises of the battle, but his aid was needed. Regardless of the flying bullets, and the sniping Viet Cong, he slithered on his belly towards the man.
The wounded soldier lay on his back. His wound caused his leg to lie limp and useless, and the shock of what had happened to him was sending uncontrollable shudders through his body. He felt weak and faint as he fought the darkness of unconsciousness and the waves of nausea that threatened to overcome him.
Efficiently, powdered morphine was mixed with sterile water and injected into the wounded soldier. As he was working, words of comfort and encouragement were expressed by the Doc. The wounded man looked up at him and tried to speak, but his pain prohibited it. But they both knew that words were not necessary. Each read in the others eyes the unspoken language that only soldiers in combat conditions could hear and understand.
As quickly as it had erupted, the battle ceased. The men waited, tense, alert, adrenaline still pumping fast through sweat stained and thirsty men. The Doc lifted his head to survey the scene around him.
No one was aware of the feelings of frustration and helplessness he was experiencing. He lowered his eyes to gaze once more at the soldier. Doc knew, without looking, that he was dead. His trained ears had heard the sounds of laboured breathing, the gasps pleading for the life-giving air, and his hand had felt the gradual stopping of the spasmodic quivers passing through his body. The Doc knew that the biggest battle that his dead mate had had to fight was the battle for his life, and in this he had not succeeded. Slowly he covered him with a poncho and wearily stood to his feet.
The official red tape would start now. Messages would be sent to the loved ones waiting at home. The military car would draw up at the average house on the average street in an average town back in Australia. The Army padre would emerge, stand on the doorstep of the home and say, "we are sorry to inform you that your Son has been killed in action, serving his country."
"Doc, Doc," his name was being called again. No time to mourn, not yet, no time to think, the men needed his aid and his help. With the familiar reply of, "I'm coming, I'm coming," he once more went in the direction of the call.
He was busy that day. Even when the other men of the platoon rested, he still had to make sure that those soldiers who had been slightly wounded were taken care of, check on his medical supplies and clean his own weapon. The dust-off had been completed earlier. He had made sure that their dead mate had been strapped in securely to the helicopter and taken back to base.
For a while, the platoon was quiet with the news of their loss. They had their own private thoughts and memories to deal with – thoughts of the times when they had shared a drink, and news from home. Thoughts of the fun they had all participated in at the Peter Badcoe Club; memories of other operations which they had been on. They would remember the sudden grin that used to lighten the face of their now dead comrade. They would be aware of the cleaning out of his locker, the packing up of his personal gear, and finally the sight of his empty bed back at the base at Nui Dat.
Life would go on. It was just hard for them to take for awhile. Their mate would never be forgotten, because they would always remember him as he was. He's free from his pain, but they all would live with the pain which memories bring.
They had come across the Armoured Personnel Carrier and even their battle hardened eyes had been shocked at what was exposed to them.
His eyes saw the still smoldering shell, the boot laying on the ground, the blood stains on the metal, the hat caught on a branch of a tree. He saw severed limbs and smelt the smell of death as it rose up from the ground. They had all been killed. He had arrived too late to be of assistance to anyone. A Vietcong rocket propelled grenade had made a direct hit, and only twisted scraps of metal remained of the A.P.C.
He felt sick. He realised with a fresh intensity that life could be snuffed out in a second of time, and that the hard, cold elements of death gave no mercy. He realised his knowledge of medicine and the help that he offered against such elements was limited. This sharp understanding caused a cold sweat to pass through his body.
He could only do the best that he could. He appreciated the fact that the Field Hospital was only 10 or 15 minutes away from the scene of the battle. He understood that the Iroquois helicopters used in the dust-offs would arrive quickly after being summoned over the field radio, and that when it arrived at what was nicknamed by the men " The St. Kilda Pad" it would only be 90 seconds before the wounded soldier would be on the operating table with a drip inserted, and a prominent surgeon attending him. These surgeons could command a high fee in civilian life, but desiring a deeper knowledge and seeking advanced skills for their profession, had made themselves available to help men in a time of great physical need.
Simpson thought back to his own time of training and preparation for his tour of Vietnam. He was officially known as a Medical Assistant. They had taught him how to deal with the loss of limbs, shock, infectious diseases, basic anatomy and physiology, the use of drugs and the application of tourniquets. He had felt then that his head was full of everything that he needed to know, all he lacked was the actual experience. The medical tutors had informed him that this would not be long in coming.
He had been allocated to a company, and it was here that the men started to call him Doc. Even before they had left the shores of Australia he had gained the respect of his mates for his medical proficiency. At times their lives could depend on his skill and quick diagnosis, at other times they knew that they could rely on his ear. He was someone who they could talk to about any kind of medical problem, and he would either refer them on to qualified medical personnel or assure them that the aches and pains which they experienced, were all part of the Vietnam War scene. The nervous rash, or the continual headaches were symptomatic of the stress that they were all under.
His Company had been shipped to Vietnam on the H.M.A.S. Sydney. For the time they were at sea, there was no let up in their education. Techniques in medical procedures were revised, tropical diseases were expounded, also their military skills were sharpened and they were all kept in peak physical condition. Their arrival was heralded by overpowering tropical and physically draining heat, sweeping monsoonal rains, and suspicious glares from the local Vietnamese people.
Simpson had been given a quick tour of the base and its medical facilities. The field hospital had casualty, surgical, medical and isolation tents, each 20 X 30 feet in size. There were smaller ones for pathology, x-ray and pharmacy. The tents stood in a cleared area with a helicopter landing pad close by the entrance to the casualty tent. The landing pad had a ramp leading directly to the casualty doors.
The soldiers had the best of care, and most important of all, they had almost immediate care.
He grinned at the sudden remembrance of what was sitting on the tables in the mess huts. On the tables, placed amongst the sugar, tea, coffee and milk was an open container holding antibiotic capsules. He had been informed that these were called the " No Sweat Pills ". Simpson had hidden his surprise and his knowledge that these antibiotics would not go far in the fight for which they were really prescribed.
He had learnt a lot since those early days of his arrival in Vietnam. He had learned about the nature of men, how they could be united in battle, and fight as a team. But they could be so different in their reactions to pain and to fear. Some would not say a word when they had been hit by an enemy bullet or flying shrapnel, but would lie there quietly while the Doc did his best for them; others would shout and scream out and thrash around in their physical suffering so that the Doc was forced to vigorously restrain them, so their cries would not reveal to the enemy their position, an added danger to the already wounded man. There were the men who cursed the war, and the Vietcong or anything else that they could lay their tongues around. Others would cry out to their God for help. Then there were the few who thought of the people back home, the concern for them when they would receive the news of their injuries would overshadow their own pain. But they were all men, all soldiers, laying, if necessary, their lifeblood on the line for their country. No matter what kind of a man they were, Simpson gave of his best to them all.
Simpson was in the unique position of seeing the effects of the other side of the battle. He was sometimes asked to go out on a propaganda mission into the local villages and offer them any medical assistance which was needed. Here he saw young children with open infected wounds. He treated burns from the napalm bombs or the village campfires, the everyday maladies of infected mosquito bites, dysentery, toothache and conjunctivitis. He looked at ulcerated legs and fractured bones. The Vietnamese people would line up to see him and patiently stand until their turn arrived. He would use his hands to heal and to help them, but strapped around his waist was his pistol, ready to kill. He often thought of the irony of that.
Days later found Simpson sitting on the floor of an Iroquois helicopter. The shoulders of the men touched and their bodies swayed together with the movements of the craft that carried them towards their destination.
Some faces looked tired and strained, Simpson made a special note to keep an eye out for those guys. They were seasoned fighters, the tested men. They would no doubt keep their heads under the pressure of the battle, but sometimes the utter weariness could cause them to be a little reckless. Others were tense and alert. These could be the ones that still felt the loss of their mate pretty keenly, and were out for the blood of Charlie. They were keen to see the Vietcong pay for the death of one of their mates.
Simpson relied on the basic training which these men had received; the training that taught discipline and the ability to obey orders. He believed that this would keep them in line and prevent them from doing anything foolish.
But then there was a face before him which caused a momentary rapid beat of his heart. He could not help but stare at it for awhile. It was a fresh face, one that did not reflect tiredness, bitterness or grief. The eyes were busy watching the unfolding colours of the rice fields below them. His interest showed as they flew over local villages and saw quite easily the women working out in the fields. This was the face of the " Re- o ", the reinforcement, the soldier who had been sent to take the place of their dead mate. Simpson caught a quick look of apprehension as the chopper turned to make its final landing approach. " We will all look out for you mate, until you get used to the idea of what war is really about, " thought Simpson, as he prepared himself for what lay ahead.
The helicopter had not even landed before it started to disgorge its human cargo. The soldiers, loaded with their 80 lb. packs and assortment of firearms, jumped from the hovering craft into the brown, tall swaying grasses of Vietnam. The men hit the ground running, and bending as low as possible to conceal themselves from the eyes of the Vietcong, hurriedly made their way to the edge of the imposing jungle. The Vietcong may not be in the immediate vacinity, but no one could hide the sounds of the throbbing motor and the whooshing noises of the rotor blades. The invisible eyes of the jungle would inform the enemy of their presence.
Falling into combat formation, they once again started on the familiar mission of search and destroy.
* * * * * * * * * Doc's time in Vietnam had come to an end. He was being shipped home. He had done his best for his mates and his country. He had seen and witnessed sights that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Some sights he knew he would never be able to speak of again. He felt in his heart that even if he did speak of them, because of their ugliness no one would believe him anyway. No one likes to know what real war is all about.
He would be glad though, to leave the smell of blood and death and rotting decay behind him. He wanted to be able to breathe the fresh air of his homeland, to stand on the shores of his own country and feel the clean wind on his face, to be able to walk barefooted on the sandy beaches and drink in the peace of the gently lapping waves. He longed to stand under a hot running shower for as long as he liked and to brush his teeth as often as he desired. He wanted to clean away from his body the smells of war in Vietnam